


Bite the Hand that Feeds

by deinvati



Series: Bane/Blake High School AU [1]
Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), The Dark Knight Rises
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Bane is 18, Bruce/Selina (mention), I Don't Even Know, M/M, No Smut, Slow Burn, Sort of? - Freeform, bully turned semi-good guy, high school project partners, john is 16, kidfic?, somehow it turned into shmoop, we all want education reform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-25
Updated: 2017-06-25
Packaged: 2018-11-18 16:59:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11294883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deinvati/pseuds/deinvati
Summary: “Have you seen the new guys?” Bruce asks.John shrugs. “I don't know. Maybe?”“Trust me. You'd remember.”Bane and Barsad are new students at Patrick Wayne High School, and everyone is curious.  But not John Blake; he’s got other stuff to worry about.  Until Bane slams a kid into the lockers.  Then he finds the time.





	Bite the Hand that Feeds

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheDreadPirate](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDreadPirate/gifts).



> A very, _very_ special thank you to [youcantsaymylastname](https://archiveofourown.org/users/youcantsaymylastname/pseuds/youcantsaymylastname) for the last minute beta, and to [Lystan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lystan/pseuds/Lystan) for cheerreading, as always! 
> 
> Title from the [Nine Inch Nails song](https://youtu.be/xwhBRJStz7w).
> 
> My prompt was “Barsad saves Blake from Bane”, and I _promise_ I eventually get to that. It’s just that I wrote a scene, and then I wrote one that happened before that, and then I filled in the parts in between those two, and then there was another one that happened even earlier, and, well, basically I started writing in the middle and then wrote a ridiculous amount of words in the wrong direction, but this _will_ ultimately lead up to your prompt. That being said, this probably isn’t what you were thinking when you wrote the prompt anyway. Okaysorrybye! *runs away*

John has three more classes before he can finally get out of here. His last class of the day is an elective, and his Humanities teacher is constantly letting the popular kids out early. Maybe he can find some way to duck out when they do because he doesn’t think he can do this day any longer than absolutely necessary. Bruce and Selina are finally, _finally_ fucking, thank God, because if he had to listen to Bruce whine about it any longer he was going to go insane. Only, now he has to watch them stick their tongues down each other's throats, which they have been doing all lunch period, and he _has_ to get some new friends. 

“Guys. Seriously. You’re gonna make me harf.” John glares at them as he stabs a limp french fry. 

He’s happy for them, he really is. Except they are going to graduate at the end of the year, and then he will be sitting in this stupid lunchroom by himself, with no one to talk to, for another two years. He’s lucky Bruce understands that when he says “Oh my god, I actually hate hanging out with you two,” as he interrupts their make-out session by plopping his tray loudly on the table across from them, what he actually means is, “Thanks for hanging out with me, I don’t actually have anyone I’d rather be with, I like you guys, and I’m glad you haven’t kicked me out just because I’m not sleeping with either of you.”

Bruce eventually stops trying to eat Selina’s face and turns back to his sack lunch. He arches an eyebrow at John. “You know, Blake, the only reason you’re stuck eating lunch with us is that no one else knows how to deal with you when you say shit like that.”

“Boo fucking hoo for you,” John says with an annoyed blink. “If I had a straight bone in my body, I might be into it. As it is…” he points his fry at them, “harf.”

“So,” Bruce says, scooting a little away from Selina and looking at John, “have you seen the new guys?” Bruce takes a bite of his sandwich, made with bread that looks like it was baked that morning. He might be going to the same public school as John, but the building doesn’t say Blake High School on the front. 

“No?” Selina cocks her head. “What new guys?” 

Bruce looks questioningly at John, who shrugs. “I don’t know, maybe?”

“Oh, trust me. You’d remember,” Bruce says, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “I think they’re twins because they’re both in my Physics class, but they don’t look anything alike. They both have weird “B” names, I don’t remember. But the one guy is huge— Bane, maybe? And he’s got this weird metal-looking mask on his face.”

John glances up from his tray. “A mask? What kind of mask?”

The sudden silence in the lunchroom is deafening. All three of them turn to see the source of the disturbance, but it isn’t hard to find. A pair that can only be the new kids entered and the bigger guy stands there, staring down every pair of eyes that locked on him. His head is shaved, though by choice or necessity John doesn’t know, because on his face, as Bruce said, is a mask. The black contraption is made of plastic and pieces of metal and wraps around his whole head, covering his mouth and nose. John has no idea why someone would wear something like that, but the guy has absolutely zero self-consciousness about it. He walks, no, _strides_ through the room, like he’s royalty and they are all his loyal minions and he is allowing them to cast their eyes upon him. 

Bruce had said he was huge, but he needs to use his big boy words because holy fucking mother shitting Jesus creaming Christ. This guy? He is fucking stacked. John has never seen anyone that looks like he does. As he passes by, John appreciates the way his black henley stretches over his shoulders, the obscene swell of his trapezius muscle doing things to John’s stomach. Whoo boy. If John hadn't already known he was gay, this guy would have smacked him in the face with it. Because he is sooooo gay. The skinnier guy follows behind him, looking neither left nor right, and he somehow looks alert and bored at the same time. 

What John wouldn’t give for confidence like that. The pair of them walk through the silent room, slap trays on the metal bars and glide them along, filling them with more food than any two people can possibly eat, and when they get to the end, the lunch lady clears her throat and every single kid in the cafeteria hears her say, “Uh, do you have your lunch PIN—”

“I have every confidence you can locate that yourself,” comes the strange, slightly muffled voice from behind the mask. His voice is loud and confident, and somehow the lunch lady seems to shrink away from him. She mumbles something and they both turn away, scanning the still-silent cafeteria. For a second, his eyes land on John’s table, and John feels his heart speed up. His mind flashes through the possibility of these two coming over, asking if this spot was taken, and expecting coherent words to flow out of him in response. 

Then his eyes slide past John like he never existed and land on a table in the far corner. There are two guys and two girls from the debate team sitting at the table like they do every day. The Brick Shithouse walks up, no, _strides_ up and declares, “My brother and I would like to sit here.”

Alex, the junior, blinks. “Uh, oka—”

“We don’t want you to join us.”

The entire room holds its breath as they wait to see what Alex will do. He blinks again, looks at his girlfriend, and then back. “Uh, okay. Whatever, man,” he says, getting his things together. “You could have just asked.” 

The guy, Bane, doesn’t hear him or does a damn fine job of pretending he can’t hear him, as the group awkwardly gathers their bags and trays. He and his brother settle at the table, the big guy with his back to everyone, and Alex and his friends look timidly around for someone else to sit with. Somehow, the new kids have displaced them, and they stand in the middle of a crowded room as people they’d known for years avoid eye contact. No one wants to welcome that particular albatross to their table. Eventually, Alex huffs and leads the group to the picnic tables outside, seats that are shunned due to their lack of shade and abundance of bird crap. John has a feeling that’s where they’ll be eating the rest of the year.

A buzz of whispers start up as the door closes behind them, low and malicious sounding, but the pair doesn’t appear to be bothered. Bane draws a battered paperback from the other’s bag, opens it, and starts reading, ignoring everyone and everything around him. The other guy starts inhaling food so fast John wonders if he can taste it. 

John exchanges a look with Bruce and Selina. Bruce’s lips are thinned, mostly at the way Alex’s group had been treated, no doubt, and he would have been the first to open his mouth and invite them to his table, except he has a reputation to uphold. John knows it burns him up, but such is high school politics. Not even the almighty Bruce Wayne can fuck with that. 

After a few minutes of watching the pair eat and read, everyone gets bored and conversations go back to normal. John turns back around, trying to shut out the mental image of the pair as easily.

“So,” John says, in between bites, “I think you were talking about something, but for the life of me, I can’t remember what it was.”

Bruce’s eyebrows remain furrowed, staring at the pair over John’s shoulder, but Selina smirks at him.

“Hmm,” she hums, stealing an edamame out of Bruce’s lunch bag, “something about physics. Homework? New breakthroughs? Elon Musk?”

“Musk. Definitely something about musk,” John mutters, and Selina chuckles. 

“Yes, it does seem to waft off of him, doesn’t it?” she peers over John’s other shoulder at the pair, and John has to restrain himself from turning around to look also. 

Bruce frowns at her. “What is that supposed to mean?”

She shrugs, cool and unaffected by his growl. She studies her nails. “Well, a girl’s got to know the field, doesn’t she? And seeing as how no one has asked me to winter formal yet—”

“It’s October,” Bruce bites out, his meal forgotten on the table in front of him.

Selina just shrugs her other shoulder and steals another bite of Bruce’s food. John rolls his eyes. 

“Selina Kyle,” Bruce grits out like it’s killing him, “will you go to the winter formal with me.” If there was a question in there, John can’t tell.

Selina hums and looks over John’s shoulder again. “Well, I don’t know… that leaves prom wide open too…”

“Selina Kyle,” Bruce says again, “will you go to all the rest of the dances for the rest of the year with me.”

She smirks a little before schooling her face into a sad, thoughtful frown. “But what about all the dances at college? They have dances, right? And what if I decide to go to adult prom? Maybe he’ll want to go with meee— eek!” She squeaks as Bruce pulls her close and kisses her smirk off her face. 

“Fuck, guys. I was eating. I had my mouth open and everything.” John throws down his napkin and stands, gathering his tray and trying not to be obvious about glancing at the newcomers he hasn’t been able to stop thinking about. He swings his backpack over his shoulder and notices the bald guy sipping a can of something through a straw under his mask, and the other guy noticing him noticing. John blushes all the way to his stupid ears, grits his teeth, and turns away. 

Bruce surfaces for a moment. “Hey, you want a ride home?”

“Nah, I’ve got a thing.”

Bruce frowns. “You sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure.” John throws him a sloppy salute so that Bruce knows he’s okay and doesn’t keep asking. He doesn’t want to lie to Bruce, and he’s not 100% sure how effective it is anyway. “I’ll see you around.”

“Bye, Johnny boy,” Selina sing-songs at him, the way she always does, and he rolls his eyes at her, the way he always does. She’s pretty alright. 

He hefts his backpack once more and drops his tray off, deliberately avoiding looking in the far corner of the room. Doesn’t stop his brain from firing off a few images as he pushes through the doors and walks down the hallway.

The images are probably the reason he doesn’t immediately register the crowd gone still at the other end of the hall until he’s almost on them. 

“Hey! Stop that!”

His voice rings out in the hallway, and it takes John a second before he realizes it’s his own voice. He pushes through the crowd as every person there stares at him, including Tyler, whose face is currently turning an alarming shade of purple. Tyler’s being pushed up against the lockers, and by “up”, he means Tyler’s feet are dangling off the floor. The person holding him there is about a foot taller than John, bald, and wearing a black henley. Shit.

When he reaches the epicenter of the crowd, he pulls on the arm holding Tyler up. “Fucking knock it off, man, he can’t breathe.”

John’s tugs do exactly nothing, and he ducks under it, trying to put himself between Bane and Tyler. Piercing blue/gray eyes meet his, looking somewhere between annoyed and intrigued at John’s interruption. Slowly, he lets Tyler slide down the wall until his feet touch the ground he draws in a gasping breath. As soon as the fingers unclench from around Tyler’s throat, Tyler is on his feet and running, pushing through people standing around watching his humiliation. John turns back to the new guy with a glare. He can see the skinny dude behind him, his frown mirroring what is probably under that grill. 

“What the fuck is your problem, man?” John asks, aware as soon as it leaves his mouth that there is no answer Bane could give that doesn’t involve smashing his head open like a watermelon. This is why he doesn’t have friends; his god damned mouth says exactly what he’s thinking, exactly when he’s thinking it. Not that he wants to be friends with this guy. What a dick.

“What is your name?” Bane asks, his eyes glaring into John’s skull, and John locks his jaw and glares right back.

Faster than John would have thought someone his size could move, Bane reaches a calloused hand out and snags John by the lanyard around his neck, his student ID flopping against Bane’s thick forearm. 

“Robin Blake,” Bane reads, twisting the lanyard around his hand and tightening the hold on John’s neck. He does it again until John has to get closer to him to avoid his air being cut off completely. “How long have you been going to this school, _Robin_ ,” Bane says, stressing the ridiculous name and reminding John why he hates it. 

Bane gives him a sharp shake when he doesn’t answer, and John swallows painfully as the lanyard tightens even further. He knows somewhere in the back of his mind that there are people standing around them, but Bane’s face is inches from his own, and John isn’t entirely sure how far he would take this game of chicken, school hallway or not. “Two…” he swallows again, “two years.” 

“And you think this gives you power over me?”

John keeps glaring, despite the threat radiating from the hulk of muscle in front of him. “Fuck you, man. What are you even doing?”

Bane’s eyebrows quirk upwards. “Whatever I want. That’s how senior classes work, little bird.”

_”Hey! What is the meaning of this?!”_ comes a shout, and Principal Gordon is there, shoving kids aside to get to them. 

Bane immediately drops John’s lanyard and John sucks in a deep breath as Bane turns to the principal.

“Principal Gordon!” he says jovially. “I’m glad you could join us. Robin and I were just discussing the school-issued lanyards. They don’t have a safety snap on them!” He places an arm around John’s shoulders. “I actually have a few improvements, just some things I’ve seen from my prior homes that I think you could implement here. And Robin here volunteered to be the head of a Student Activities Committee.”

Gordon’s face flashes between being sure he is being fucked with and confusion over why John A) would let someone call him Robin, or B) volunteer for anything, ever.

“Is that so, John?”

John doesn’t have to look at Bane or his brother’s faces to see the warning that lurks there. 

“Yeah. Sure,” he says. 

Bane takes the heavy arm from around John’s shoulders and transfers it to Principal Gordon’s. He steers the slighter man away from the slowly dispersing crowd as he says, “I’ve got quite a few propositions to help Patrick Wayne High School start standing out in the national stats. Now, have you looked into regional accreditation? Because there are processes...”

His voice trails off as he leads Gordon down the hall toward the Principal’s office, and John’s shoulders relax. Which is when he’s slammed into the nearby lockers by a wiry arm.

Bane’s brother looms over him, his scant few inches taller than John made that much more powerful by the crackle of energy that radiates from him. Bane’s brother may be skinny, but in a fight, John wouldn’t put his money on the other guy. In this case, though, _he_ is the other guy.

“Stay away from Bane,” is the low mutter that comes out of his mouth, and then he’s gone, weaving between students and following where Bane and Gordon had disappeared.

“Jesus,” John breathes, finally allowing himself to rub his neck. “What a weird family.”

 

Bane is in his Humanities elective class because of course he fucking is. Electives aren’t grade specific, and Principal Gordon had patted himself on the back pretty hard when he’d thought of introducing them, although the jury is still out on how effective they are. John likes them, personally, and there’s always been a mix of faces John isn’t used to seeing, but Bane struts in like he owns the place and instead of sitting with the gaggle of seniors in the back corner, he kicks out the chair right behind John and sprawls into it. John can feel Bane’s heavy boot resting on the rung of his chair and the other one stretches into the aisle, taking up as much space as possible. 

“Well! Welcome, welcome, welcome, we have a new student joining our little family today, don’t we, Bane?” Ms. Bishop is new, and young, and concentrating far too much on being considered the “fun” teacher. “And we’re all so thrilled to have you. So, I know you’re a senior, and you’ve probably had bits and pieces of this information throughout your high school career, but this class is special. Because we get to put all those bits and pieces together! So!” she claps her hands and lifts them to her face like she’s been granted a great gift. “I’ve decided we’ll do a quick review of what we’ve been working on, for Bane’s benefit. How does that sound?”

The question goes unanswered, naturally, and John clicks open his notes doc.

She continues on like she’d gotten a standing ovation. “So far this year we’ve talked about Renaissance and Pre-Modern art and society, and now we’ve moved on to Modernism. So, to review, class, when did this age start?”

John raises his hand. “At the end of the 19th century, beginning of the 20th century.”

“Right, yes. As always, John, thank you. And what were some of the things we started to see across art and society?”

John keeps his mouth shut and closes his notes. There’s a silence and then, “Lots of cubes!” someone in the back laughs.

The teacher laughs along with them. “Yes, that’s true. We started to see things changing, not just in this country, but the entire world. Things are becoming more industrialized, and suddenly, the things people relied on to explain the unexplainable, religion, tradition, even the sciences, start to feel a bit tight. So, we start to see new things in the world of art,” she gestures to the back, “like cubes.” She smiles out at all of them, benevolently. “In the world of music, we start to hear a new a different way of arranging music. And in literature, we start to see new forms of writing, like stream of consciousness and parodies. And there’s a _lot_ that is produced with the idea that the subconscious is far more interesting than the conscious mind.”

“But, of course,” comes the unmistakable voice behind John, “we’re going to discuss the class gap which things like Modernism highlight, correct, Ms. Bishop? Because thinking about things like ‘how the subconscious looks’ and ‘whether I reject the previous religious constructs of society’ are really just things for the rich to think about, wouldn’t you agree?”

The teacher blinks, her smile falters, and she blinks again. “Well, I wouldn’t say that the feelings of the time were restricted to—”

“But of course they were!” Bane’s voice is confident and so close John swears he can feel his breath trickle down the back of his neck. “At the beginning of the 20th century, common citizens were contemplating The Depression. The Dust Bowl. Putting food on the table. Isn’t it our duty to consider the people who were carrying the privileged few on their backs? The wealthy and corrupt were the ones concerned with Cubism. Are you instructing us to blindly believe that fourth generation farmers who’d recently sold everything they knew, were standing around discussing about Kandinsky?“

John can’t sit still any longer and spins in his chair. “Your timeline is off by a few decades,” he glares. “She was obviously talking about the beginning of the modernist era, 1900 to 1920, and The Depression didn’t hit full force until the 30’s. Are you saying it _wasn’t_ an era where art, music, plays, and literature changed drastically in a short time frame, or are you just saying you don’t care about it?”

“Only that the wealthy were the ones deciding which swirls of paint were scandalous enough to converse about whilst having their cake and eating it too.”

John’s face starts to heat with the flames licking at his insides. “Scan— scandalous was the whole damn purpose of the movement! It was about breaking the traditions people were stuck in. Pablo Picasso painted women in a brothel for god’s—” 

“Pablo Picasso was a rich ponce.” 

John’s vision goes spotty for a second as he grits his teeth so hard he thinks his jaw might snap. He doesn’t even have a huge dedication to Picasso, but this uncultured asshole is making him want to buy every print he can find. 

He could swear Bane is smiling when he says, “You locate a starving artist that altered the course of 1900 to 1920, and I’ll retract my statements, little Robin.”

John wants to lunge out of his desk and throttle him. He wants to forget about the way Bane practically strangled him with one hand and a shitty name tag just hours before and simply attempt to pummel the ever living shit out of the smug fuck who still had his foot on John’s goddamn chair. 

“Unless you are able to provide one, Ms. Bishop? Or shall we discuss it further?” Bane asks, sliding his eyes from John to the stone-faced teacher at the front of the room.

“The review is over. Please take out your textbooks.” 

John kisses the idea of leaving early goodbye as an annoyed teacher struggles to explain why working class people should also care about the Modernist movement and then assigns reading, homework, and announces a quiz for tomorrow, even though tomorrow is Friday.

Great. Juuuust great. Thanks, Bane. What a fucking asshole.

 

John hightails it out of the front doors once the final bell rings, shoving books and papers back in his bag as he goes. It takes a good 20 minutes to walk to the huge stone edifice that dominates the block, and John tries to slow up towards the end so he’s got some energy for what lies ahead. St. Swithins is cold and gigantic, and he bypasses the church for the squat brick building behind it, homey and welcoming, where he can smell the paste and peanut butter that brings back a thousand memories. 

He barely breaches the doors before he’s hit in the knees by at least three kids, all of whom want to show him something. 

“All right, all right, Jesus, you monkeys. Gimme a second!” 

There is a squeal of laughter and several, “We’re not monkeys!” before they all dissolve into “Ooh ooh! Aah aah!”’s while they jump around the hallway. John laughs as he sets his bag by the wall. 

“Sam here yet?”

“Yeah, he was here _forever_ ago, slowpoke!”

“Hey, no name calling, you monkey.” John says with a grin, ruffling the dark curls on Angel’s head. “You got the ball?”

“I’ve got it!” 

“Then let’s go!” John crows then trails behind the group of kids as they race each other to the cracked basketball court behind the building. The naked hoops gleam as the sun slowly sets, and John sweats way more than a normal human should who is playing against a group of 3 foot high tornados. Well, and Sam, who is spectacularly good at basketball, even if he is only a sixth grader, and who seems to take a perverse pleasure in getting them to gang up on John while never being “open.” When John finally cries mercy and they all sit against the bleachers, he drinks a bottle of water and tries to catch his breath. 

“So, what’s been going on around here? What did I miss?”

They get quiet and John knows why Father Reilly called him. He meets Sam’s eyes over their heads and Sam gives a half shrug. He’s here more often than John because he’s in love with the basketball hoops, but for some reason, they haven’t talked to him. 

He takes another deep drink of the water bottle and is contemplating asking Sam to get him another one, in case he’s the reason they aren’t talking. Then Angel pipes up.

“There’s a new kid. He doesn’t talk. He just screams.”

John does a quick head count, and he’s not seeing anyone new. “Oh yeah? What’s he like?” And then they all talk at once.

“Father Reilly calls him Tay Tay.”

“Sometimes he cries at night.”

“He wet the bed.”

“I think he hates me.”

“He hates everyone, stupid.”

“All right, monkeys,” John says quietly, so they have to listen, “that’s enough name calling.” He looks around at all the faces staring up at him, circles of hopefulness in the early evening light. “How old is he? Does he go to school?”

Lots of head shakes. 

“Do you guys know what happened to him?”

More head shakes and Rosie says, “Father Reilly says it’s his business and he doesn’t have to talk about it if he doesn’t want to.”

“Yeah, Father Reilly is usually right about that kind of stuff. Is that counselor lady still coming on Tuesdays?”

There’s a general look of distaste from all the kids and Angel says, “She’s not coming anymore. Budget cuts,” he says, his tone all-knowing and important. 

John gives him a look. “What did I tell you about listening in on other people’s conversations?” Angel doesn’t even look ashamed as he shrugs and John sighs. “Can you guys do me a favor? See if you can remember your first night here.”

A few of them can’t, because they’ve been here a while, but most of them, Sam especially, brought a lot of shit with them and came through even more to get here. 

“It might have been kind of scary, in a new place full of people you don’t know. And Father Reilly smells like wine sometimes, because of church, and that can scare kids sometimes too. So it’s our job to make sure we aren’t scaring Tay Tay even more, okay?”

“But John,” says Rosie’s small voice, the one who confessed that Tay Tay had wet the bed, “he really hates it here, and he's mad all the time. Can’t he come stay with you?”

Ah. So they didn’t talk to Sam because they knew it wasn’t something Sam could decide. At one time or another, each kid here had asked to come live with him, but it must be serious if they were asking on his behalf and putting someone else in front of themselves. He knew Sharon was over full, not that that would stop her or the system from shoving another kid into that mess. But the problem is, he really doesn’t think he can take care of any more kids, and if Tay Tay doesn’t go to school yet, he’ll just be home with Sharon and babysitter Paw Patrol for most of the day. Not exactly a place of love and healing.

“Let me talk to Father Reilly and see what I can do. But it might be better for him to stay here for a little while. If that’s what has to happen, can I trust you guys to help him out if he needs it? Can you be my eyes and ears?”

They all nod solemnly and John wants to hug them all.

“All right, now let an old man breathe for a little bit. Go play. Ah, ah, ah,” he shushes them, “go on.”

He watches them go back to basketball, Sam leading the way, then heads inside. Father Reilly confirms the budget cuts, infers John’s worst fears about Tay Tay, and agrees with him about Sharon. So here is where Tay Tay will stay, at least for now, but Father Reilly will keep an extra eye on him and John will stop by more often. It’s the best he can do.

John grabs Sam and drags him away from the court, throwing out promises about seeing them soon. Then they walk home, Sam dribbling slowly. He talks to Sam about school, finds out he was supposed to have written an essay due tomorrow, and groans when he agrees to lend him his laptop so he can finish it tonight. He’s got his own homework to do, thanks a fucking lot, Bane. 

The older girls made pb&j with the last of the bread and started baths by the time John gets home and he pulls them to the side to thank them.

“I stopped by St Swithins,” he starts and they both groan. Kat and Mollie look nothing alike, they don’t have the same parents, but John would swear they were actual sisters. “I’m not bringing anyone else home,” he says, defensive at their skeptical looks. “Well, not yet anyway.” They both roll their eyes. “Look, they’ve got a kid… it doesn’t matter. What matters is that I’m going to need to go down there a couple times a week and I need your help after school when I’m not here. Can you guys make sure they’re getting their homework done and get supper started?” 

“There’s no more bread,” Mollie says, her arms crossed.

“Or eggs,” Kat agrees, crossing her arms too.

“Or fruit.”

“Or pretty much anything.”

John sighs. “I know, but tomorrow’s Friday, so she should get her check. I’ll ask her to buy groceries.”

“She’s not gonna do it,” Mollie snarks.

“Yeah, she’s not gonna do it,” Kat agrees, and John sighs again. 

“Thanks for your help guys, I really appreciate all you’ve been doing.” He hands them the box of Little Debbie snacks Father Reilly had given him and they’ve split them up and squirreled them away before he gets his laptop out of his bag. They’ll hoard them, and use them for bribes for the littler kids, or maybe they’ll remember _they’re_ still kids and they’ll eat them all in one sitting and get stomach aches. He sort of hopes for the stomach aches. 

John hands his laptop to Sam along with a sandwich and tells him it better be done by morning. Then he reads books, combs hair, and puts kids to bed. By the time his foster mother pushes open the creaky front door, reeking of smoke and booze, he’s got everyone but Sam and the older girls in bed, and he’s finishing a grocery list.

“Hey, Sharon, when you get paid tomorrow I need you to get this stuff.”

“God damn, John, you’re worse than my fucking mother.”

“Yeah, well, mine’s dead.”

He says it with casual cruelty, because he was raised Catholic, damn it, and if he can’t use guilt to his advantage, no one can. 

She glares at him, but snatches the list, then slams the door to her room without another word. He could give two shits about her, as long as she helps him out when he asks and doesn’t burn down the duplex with one of her cigarettes, he doesn’t care. He would take home every one of those kids if he could, but he can only do so much. He makes Sam save his work, warns him he’ll be getting up early tomorrow, and then pushes him through the shower and bed. The girls will do what they want anyway, so he leaves them be, and collapses on his mattress in the corner of the living room with his laptop to struggle through English lit, trig homework, a worksheet for Spanish, and this fucking Humanities paper that he wants to staple to Bane’s forehead. He’s pretty sure it’ll do before he passes out.

John has a dream that night where he’s confronting Bane in the hallway again, and everything is the same, except this time Bane is wearing nothing but a pair of tiny black shorts, and he’s choking John with his bare hands. He wakes up to his alarm with jizz in his underwear, still hard. He has a weird, scratch un-itched feeling deep in his gut, and he tries not to think of anything as he indulges in his one luxury, a full water heater and no one pounding on the door as he jacks off in the shower. He tries not to think of anything specific, anyway. Vague shapes and sounds and breaths across the back of his neck… that’s not specific.

He makes a scant breakfast for the little kids, then makes sure Kat and Mollie have their violins and Sam finished his essay and saved it to a flash drive. Then he pushes the older kids to the bus and gets ready to walk to school.

“Sharon, I’m going,” he hollers down the hallway, not really caring if he wakes her, even though she’s a beast in the mornings. “The little ones have eaten.”

There’s no answer from his foster mother’s bedroom, and he manages not to sneer as he turns on the TV, drops kisses on foreheads, and locks the door behind him. He hates this, he hates _her_ , but what else is new? He can’t help the others if he’s not here, and the boy’s group home kicked him out for fighting, so he’s back in the shit-tastic foster care system for the foreseeable future. He knows exactly how much he’s worth to Sharon, so he’s unsurprised by her reluctance to send him anywhere else. 

But Kat has started talking again, and Sam hasn’t been in a fight at school this year so far, and he knows, deep down, that it could be worse, for all of them. In fact, it _was_ worse for them, before Sharon, and dare he say it, before him. He can’t fix it for them; he doesn’t know any of the right answers or the right thing to say. But he knows where they came from, he knows what they dealt with. He knows about the anger that seeps into you when your whole life is one shit storm after another. That kind of anger infects you from the inside out, and he shows them how to function even though it is still there, still burning into your marrow, still throbbing with every step you take. 

He can feel that anger pulse as he walks down the hall to his locker and sees Bane and his brother round the corner. They are flanked by a bunch of seniors, most of them the “shop” kids, some of the football players, and, oddly enough, a few of the popular kids. An unsuspecting freshman closes his locker and isn’t watching where he’s going as he walks straight into Bane, ricocheting slightly off his chest. He receives a face full of lockers for his trouble, and John tenses in preparation, but the freshman just gapes at Bane in a combination of horror and wonder as Bane walks past without so much as glancing at him. The group continues down the hallway, headed for the South Gym where everyone hangs out before first period. John senses more than sees Bruce come up behind him. 

“What is with that guy?”

“Not sure,” Bruce grunts, “but I’ll probably have to find out.”

John turns to see Bruce’s glare, his lips thinned. “Why? What’s going on?”

Bruce levels a look at him, the kind John hates, the kind that says, “if you were older, you would already know this.” He curls his hands into fists to ground himself and raises an eyebrow at Bruce.

“He’s recruiting.”

He leaves John staring at the gaggle of followers, still trailing after that bald head.

At lunch, he directs his Bane questions at Selina, who is a much more forthcoming font of information.

“His brother’s name is Barsad, but I don’t know if they’re really brothers because they have different last names. But Barsad is in my psych class, and Bane is in my English, and they’re both wicked smartasses to the teachers. The kind that challenge them, and make people get off track, but not actually off track, because they’re still talking about school stuff and not, like, the party this weekend, which, by the way, Bruce, we should totally go.”

“Hey,” John snaps his fingers in her face, “focus. Bane.”

Selina gives him a sharp-toothed smile. “Ooh, pushy, Johnny boy. I like that in a man.”

“Yeah,” he grins back with a challenge, “me too.”

“Hey,” Bruce snaps, “focus.”

She sticks her tongue out at Bruce and turns back to John. “Well, Jared said he heard they were from San Diego, but Hayden said they were from Afghanistan.”

“Hayden the girl or Hayden the guy?”

“Guy.”

John rolls his eyes. “That guy is a tool, who knows if that’s true.”

Selina shrugs. “I heard them talking to each other in the hallway, but when they saw me they switched to another language. And I don’t actually know what language it was.”

John blinks at that. “Huh.” That’s actually kind of impressive. “Anything else?”

Selina arches a perfect eyebrow at him. “My, my, Johnny boy. Awfully curious, aren’t we?”

John glares through the heat he can feel creeping over his neck. “Fuck you. Everyone is. You think there’s not one person in this room that hasn’t at least talked about _that_?” He jabs a thumb over his shoulder to where Bane and Barsad are sitting in the corner, except now there is a whole group of people sitting with them. Near them, he corrects himself. Neither of them is interacting with the people who have joined their table, in fact, Bane is sitting on the bench backward, leaned against the table, fiddling with something. He’s not looking at it, he’s surveying the room, and it takes him less than a second to lock eyes with John. John flushes harder and turns back to glare at Selina. 

“There are so many rumors, I can’t tell what’s true and what’s not. Did you hear the one about how he got the mask?”

“Hmm,” Selina smirked, still looking at Bane over John’s shoulder. “Which one?” She waggled her fingers at him and John looked to see what Bane’s reaction would be before he could stop himself. 

Bane didn't react, just kept staring straight back at them. His fingers didn't stop what they were working on, and John saw a piece of string. He turned back around and yanked Selina's hand down. 

“Stop it. He's going to get pissed and come over here and then what are you going to do?”

“Yes, what are you going to do?” 

John freezes at the grate of voice behind him, and how the hell does someone so big move so quietly and so fast? Bruce jerks to a stand, stiffly staring Bane down. John drops Selina’s sleeve where his fingers have curled and draws his fists closer to his core. 

Bane raises his eyebrows, his eyes crinkling slightly at the edges. “No need to stand on ceremony, Mr. Wayne. You’re welcome to join us, of course.”

“I’m good here, thanks,” Bruce says, and John doesn’t think he’s aware of quite how much he is frowning. Bane shifts his gaze to Selina, who only smirks and crosses her legs under the table. Bane nods and John, to his embarrassment, flinches when Bane drops a heavy hand on the back of John’s neck. He doesn’t squeeze like John predicted, just rests his too-warm fingertips against John’s skin.

“Things will be changing here, and soon. You won’t want to miss it.”

He drags his hand away as he leaves, and John feels every muscle around his spine tense, one at a time. He turns to watch Bane saunter away and catches Barsad’s glare, hot and heavy and leveled right at him. What the actual fuck.

“Hmm,” Selina hums, “well! That was exciting.” She licks her lips as Bruce settles next to her and she leans into his arm. 

“What did he mean by that?” John asks, even though he knows he’s going to get the look from Bruce again. 

But he doesn’t. Bruce is busy glaring at Bane’s table, eyes flicking over everything. Selina leans forward. “I’m not sure, but he’s still looking at you.”

It takes every ounce of willpower in his slightly scrawny body not to turn around and check. It’s almost concerning how powerful the urge to look is. 

“You sure he’s not looking at you, Boobs McGee?”

“Hmmm,” she says, not taking her eyes off Bane. “Let’s find out.” She leans over to Bruce, parts her lips, and drags them down the shell of his ear. Bruce’s eyelid twitches. She keeps her eyes on Bane, presses herself closer to Bruce, then flicks her tongue in his ear. Bruce’s hands tighten on the edge of the table. Then, slowly, watching the far side of the room, she takes Bruce’s earlobe in between her teeth.

John’s scalp prickles. “Damn, girl,” he murmurs.

Bruce, who looks like he’s had just about enough, turns and glares at her. “Are you about done trying to turn on other guys?”

“ _Other_ guys?” she asks, grinning her sly grin.

Bruce sets his jaw in answer to her challenge and stands. “Come on,” he says, grabbing her wrist and half dragging Selina out of the cafeteria, with her scampering eagerly after him. John swore she got off on the power trip of making Bruce hard in public places. He’d know; he’d been there often enough when it happened. At least now they’re doing something about it and he doesn’t have to deal with Blue Balls Bruce ™ for the rest of the day.

He sighs and stabs a tinny-tasting mandarin orange and manages to wait a full ten seconds before he casually glances over his shoulder. Bane’s eyes meet his and John can feel his neck heat up as he turns back to stare into his oranges. Well, fuck. What does _that_ mean?

He dumps his tray and leaves, storming down the hallway and spitefully ripping the sticky note reading “Out of Order” in Bruce’s handwriting off the bathroom door on his way past. He basically sleepwalks through the rest of his classes, until the last period. 

John tries to tell himself that he’s forgotten about Bane being in his Humanities class. He’s just going to sit in his regular seat, and oh, look, whaddya know, Bane is here too. He glares at the hulk as he passes by to sit right behind John again and gets a raised eyebrow and a look like he’s some sort of adorable tot that Bane wants to pat on the head in response. John grits his teeth.

“Okay, class! I hope everyone did their reading last night! Go ahead and pass your homework forward. And it’s Friiiiiiiiday,” Ms. Bishop sings, “so I said there would be a quiz, but it’ll just be a little one.” She grinned at all of them, and John can imagine she’s envisioning the write-up in the yearbook as everyone’s favorite teacher. “Ms. Bishop is the best because she only gives us little quizzes on Fridays!” Please. 

John feels the heavy hand land on his shoulder passing forward a sheaf of papers, single spaced and at least five pages thick, far exceeding the required one-page essay they were supposed to do. The hand takes its time withdrawing, and John can’t help but glance at the first page, with his parenthetical references and densely packed prose. He turns to raise an eyebrow at Bane. He could swear Bane’s grinning at him under there, and his only response is to take his gigantic boot and plunk it on the rung of John’s chair. John rolls his eyes, shoves his two-page paper under Bane’s, and passes them forward. What a prick.

“So, Ms. Bishop,” comes Bane’s voice, sugary sweet and John tenses. He doesn’t think he’s imagining things when he sees Ms. Bishop tense too. “Would you say that the political atmosphere of the time impacted the Modernist movement?”

Ms. Bishop blinks at the question and then brightens. “Why, yes! Of course it did!” She moved across the front of the room, collecting homework from each row. “Everything that was going on in the world impacted what we saw in art and literature. Good question!”

She turns back to her desk and Bane’s voice rings out again. “In what way?”

She straightens quickly, color high in her cheeks and an awkward silence descends. John raises his eyebrows as she stammers, “Uh. That’s… uh, that’s Monday’s lesson.”

“Is it.” There’s a movement behind him, and John can picture Bane crossing his arms. “And what about today’s political atmosphere?’

Ms. Bishop taps the stack of papers she has in her hands against her desk. “What do you mean?”

“Do you think it’s impacting the Humanities in the same ways that happened in 1900 to 1920?”

Her answer takes a few seconds. “Well, I suppose we'll see, won’t we?”

“Will we.” John can hear his smug grin under that mask. “Do you think the people in 1900 to 1920 said that?”

She seems to think about that one, her face thoughtful. “No, I suppose not.” She starts passing out the stack of quizzes. “People noticed right away that there was a difference. Artists of the era, even the ones that were seen as the founders of the movement, started out because they were influenced by other artists.”

“This would be the perfect environment for an artistic revolution, wouldn’t you say?”

She considers Bane, a light in her eyes that hadn’t been there before. “Yes,” she says softly. “Yes, I suppose it would.”

Bane fell quiet, and the class did too, taking their quizzes and looking casting curious glances towards their corner. John wanted to look too, but he hunkered over his quiz instead, making an extra effort. 

The quiz doesn’t take long, as promised, and for reasons he can’t quite put his finger on, he doesn’t try to leave with the other kids. Bane stays as well, and when the final bell rings and the teacher beats them to the door, John ignores the bulk behind him. At least until he reaches his locker.

“What do you want?” he finally snaps, spinning, and practically running into the wall of muscle that’s been trailing him.

But Bane brushes past him as if he had no idea John was in front of him and moves to the other end of the hallway. “Brother!” he greets Barsad, then shoots off a string of words in a language John’s never heard before, and John’s face heats. He turns back to his locker, but not before he catches Barsad scowling at him.

Well, what the fuck did John ever do to him? God. If someone pissed in his Cheerios, it wasn’t John. But while he wants to glare right back, something about the wiry guy and the seemingly naked hatred he had for John keeps his face in his locker. He gathers his books and laptop for the weekend and slams his locker shut, chancing one last glimpse at Bane, who, of fucking course, is staring right at him. Barsad too, like they had been discussing him. Fuck.

John hurries across the parking lot and cuts across the football field, empty because it’s Friday and coaches don’t want to be there any more than students do. 

“Robin.”

His head snaps up, even though he doesn’t normally answer to that, because the muffled rasp of that voice, that _voice_ , the one that’s been rattling around the corners of his brain, is saying his name again.

Bane is leaning against the fence, a bulky coat making him look even bigger, and John swallows and slows. “Yeah?”

“To ask you a question.”

John stops and looks at Bane, the autumn air puffing out the grill of his mask, warm from his breath. Did he just start a sentence in the middle? John was completely lost. “What?” 

“You asked me what I wanted. That is what I want.”

John retraces his steps mentally. “Oh. Okay. What about?”

“About yesterday’s homework,” he says, turning to walk the same direction John had been going, and John has no choice but to follow.

“So,” John asks, still feeling a step behind, “you’re asking me a question about homework we already turned in?”

“Mmm,” Bane hums thoughtfully. “I wanted to hear your thoughts on it.”

John feels that unscratched-itch feeling in his gut again, the one he couldn’t name. Except he can: irritation. That’s what it was. His mouth twists. “Look, you’re probably looking for some deep, philosophical answer here, but the truth is that I was mostly annoyed I had to do it.”

“Why?” Bane’s voice didn’t sound surprised, simply curious.

John bites back a sigh. “I’ve got a lot to do outside of school. I don’t need extra busy work.” The truth is, as long as he understands the subject, he doesn’t really mind homework. But last night it kind of built up and he was feeling stressed. And with his extra visits to try and talk to Tay Tay, he doesn’t see an end in sight just yet. 

“Why?” Bane asks again, his inflection the same.

John frowns at him. “I’ve just got stuff to do.”

“Ah, yes,” Bane says, sounding smug. “And how many children do you take care of?”

John freezes, apprehension crawling up his limbs. “What? How do you know that?”

Bane stops too, turning back to him. John realizes he hasn’t necessarily been leading the way, but they are headed towards St. Swithins anyway.

“Your friend Miss Kyle is very charitable with her information.”

John stuffs down his annoyance at his friend in order to focus on the bulk in front of him. “What did she tell you about me?” He is trying to be civil, honest. 

Bane does that thing again where he looks at John like he’s a fluffy kitten or something. “What did she tell you about _me_?”

Okay, touché. “Well, what did you tell anyone? Because if you told someone, she probably heard it.” 

Bane buries both hands in the pockets of his coat and tilts his head at John. “I said nothing.”

John snorts. “Yeah, that’s kind of what I figured. So, it doesn’t really matter what she told me because it’s all bullshit.”

Bane huffs what can only be a laugh into the air and squints at John. “I am curious, little bird. How much did you believe?”

“About half,” he shrugs, “but that’s about how much I believe from Selina anyway.” 

Bane considers him, then turns and inclines his head in invitation to keep walking. John follows, because what else is he going to do? He has to go this way.

“So,” John continues, “I’m assuming everything Selina told you about me is true. Seems kind of unfair, you knowing more about me than I know about you.”

“What is it you wish to know, little Robin?”

For some reason, when Bane says it like that, with the warm ‘o’ and the soft edges, he doesn’t mind it so much.

He’s pretty sure he’s blushing and watches his shoes. “Uh, well, where are you from?”

Bane doesn’t answer for a second and John squints up at him. He’s staring straight ahead, but John can’t read his expression. He’s probably regretting letting John ask him anything. Well, it’s a normal new guy question. It’s not like he hasn’t had to answer it at least once before in his life.

“I have been many places. I have seen many things in those places. Mine is not a happy story,” he finally says.

John looks back at his shoes. Not an answer, but far more honest than he’d thought Bane would offer. “Yeah, I kinda figured. You’ve got that look.” Bane lifts an eyebrow at him but doesn’t say anything. “That angry-in-your-bones look. I know it well.”

“Do you?” 

It’s not a question, but it sort of is, and it’s not that John’s ashamed, but he doesn’t really want to get into a “whose childhood was worse” competition. Besides, John managed to make it through without a life-altering appliance strapped to his face, so he’s not sure he’ll win anyway. 

“Are you American?” he asks, just to change the subject.

“Does that matter?”

It seems to be a heavy question for Bane, but John just shrugs, because it isn’t for him. “Not to me. Just curious.”

Bane gives an almost imperceptible nod. “Technically, no. But I know no other country.”

“So, yes, then.” John shoves his hands in his pockets to avoid looking at his watch. He doesn’t want to know how long his 20-minute walk is taking him. “What other languages do you speak?”

Bane is looking at him with an expression John can’t quite make out. He wishes, vaguely, he could see the rest of Bane’s face, then realizes he’s been allowed to ask Bane questions and the mask didn’t even cross his mind. It was just a part of him. He might as well have asked Bane why his eyes were blue.

Finally, Bane says, “My brother and I are students of the world. We speak several languages. The one you overheard was Farsi.”

“Yeah, what’s the deal with him anyway?” John asks, making a mental note to Google Farsi when he gets home. 

“Barsad?” Bane asks, and John could swear he’s smiling. “There is no deal. He is simply Barsad.”

“Yeah, but,” John says, feeling dumb, “is he really your brother? You guys don’t really look alike…”

It’s Bane’s turn to shrug. “He is my brother in all but blood. We have been through much together.”

John nods at his feet. “Yeah, I’ve got a foster brother too. I try to look out for him, keep him pointed in the right direction. Not sure I always succeed, but I try.”

Bane is quiet for a moment, then, “I’m sure Barsad understands that feeling.”

John’s head jerks up, and yep, sure enough, there are the crinkles around Bane’s eyes. Holy shit, he just made a joke! John chuckles, glancing at Bane again because he can’t help it. His head is silhouetted against the setting sun, and he’s like an eclipse. He allowed John to ask him questions, gave him no concrete answers, managed to leave John with even more questions, and yet somehow, John feels special. 

They walk in silence for a while, then John says, “So,” casting around for another topic, “did you really want to ask me about the homework assignment?”

Bane’s shift in demeanor is almost tangible. He nods solemnly and keeps a curious eye on John. “We have seen many schools, Barsad and I, both in Gotham and beyond. And always, the underclass are kept underclass because they are given names and dates instead of being taught to think, to plan, to succeed. I had thought this school might be different. I had hoped the Wayne family, with their commitment to “the people of Gotham,” might actually serve the people of Gotham. However…” he sighs, “it is the same.”

He sounds beaten down and weary, and John thinks about that for a bit. They come to a section of sidewalk flanked by stately trees and covered in fallen acorns. John kicks them out of his way as he walks, scuffing his shoes on the sidewalk. Bane just steps on them. The _pop_ and _crunch_ echo and John feels a grin tugging at his lips. They’re so loud, Bane wouldn’t even hear him if he asked a question, and John steps on one too. He can feel the hard ball under his sole, but no satisfying _crunch_ , and when he lifts his foot, there it is, whole and perfect. John frowns. It takes two more stamps before it finally cracks, and then it’s a mush of green and white smeared on the cement. John is glaring at the offending acorn when he hears an extra loud _crunch_. 

Bane lifts his foot to reveal seven, _seven!_ crushed acorns under his foot and his eyes crinkle at John. John laughs and takes off, jumping and trying to crush some more, older, bigger ones, that do end up cracking easily, Bane clomping and _crunch_ ing behind him. When they reach the end of the tree-lined street, John is panting slightly and grinning, and even Bane’s mask seems to puff more steam than before. 

Bane draws even with him, close by his side, a little too close actually, his eyes searching John’s, and John thinks, _“He’s going to kiss me.”_ He realizes immediately how stupid that thought is and wants to punch himself in the brain. Seriously, how would he do that? What is the matter with you?

He’s frowning, he knows as soon as Bane backs up. Shit. That’s not… goddamn it. Bane starts walking again, looking both ways first, and John follows, hurrying to keep up.

“So, how is Patrick Wayne the same as all the other schools?” he asks, trying not to sound so out of breath.

It makes Bane slow up a bit, which he is grateful for. Bane considers. “Your instructors have explained why we study our history, yes?”

“You mean that whole, ‘Those who do not study history are doomed to repeat it’ mantra?”

Bane nods. “Precisely. And yet, they tell you about battles, alliances, political motivations. They do not explain how to avoid repeating it. They do not worry about applying the knowledge they’re imparting. They do not make it useful.” 

John thinks about that. “I guess. But we’re just kids. I assume if we become, like, generals or something they go into more detail on New General Orientation Day.”

“Oh, yes?” Bane huffs another billow of steam. “You believe military leaders have a ‘Civil War refresher’ once they have achieved the correct status?”

“Okay,” John says slowly, “fine, but how do you make civil war information useful if you’re not a general?”

“Have we already solved that little problem of the underclass, the minorities, those without access to socially sanctioned privileges and rights?”

He says it casually and keeps walking, but John’s feet slow without him realizing it. 

“Wait,” he says, rushing to catch up. “You mean, you think teachers should use the Civil War as a lens to talk about current race relations? In history class?”

Bane stops to look at John. “Do you intend to be a general, little Robin? Do you have need of the knowledge of each battle?”

John blinks. “I don’t… I mean, no, probably not.”

“Then what would _you_ use to talk about race relations? Or do you think we do not need to discuss it? It does not affect us?”

John’s head swirls as he looks into those blue eyes, hard and defiant, and so fucking sure of himself. 

Bane turns and starts walking again, but John looks back at the acorns they’d crushed, thinks about the way they’d probably looked running down the sidewalk. He looks back at Bane, still striding away from him and that feeling in his gut is back. Only it isn’t irritation this time. Maybe it never was. He follows slowly, and Bane is content to let John trail after him, a half block behind. John needs the space, his head is too full of Bane. When he gets to the block where he needs to turn to go to St Swithins, he wants to call out, say goodbye, something, but in the end, he just turns and goes. When he opens the door and looks back, Bane is gone.

 

Tay Tay is a screamer. If John had felt unsettled before, it was nothing compared to how he feels confronted with a child who couldn’t have been more than three or four, screaming and beating his fists against his temples when John walks in the room. 

John backs up immediately, putting as much space between them as possible. He’s holding his hands up, his back against the wall, and thinks, _“God, put your hands down, you look ridiculous.”_ Tay Tay keeps screaming, so John opens the door to his room wide, then backs out slowly and sits down in the doorway. Tay Tay keeps screaming, so John leaves the door open but scoots to the side, so Tay Tay can see he’s there, but John can’t see him.

Tay Tay’s screams subside to sobs, painful, wracking sobs that tear John’s heart out. He listens for a moment, then does something he hasn’t done in years. He starts to sing. He sings a song he hasn’t heard in almost a decade, a song he barely remembers but his mouth knows the words. A song from an animated movie he refuses to watch, a song that makes his throat tight. A song his mother sang to him. He sings it slow, and quiet, so Tay Tay has to listen to hear him, and when he gets done, he hums it again. Then, without looking in, he closes the door again, letting the latch click softly home. Then he presses his eyes into his knees and gives himself a few minutes to keep from shaking apart. Then he goes home.

 

John’s weekends are not days off. If anything, he looks forward to school so he can relax and not deal with other people’s problems for nine hours. He feels a little guilty, because Catholic, but otherwise, he tries to soak up as much “me-time” as a 16-year-old might need throughout the week. Because weekends? Weekends are stressful. 

The two short days pass in a blur of as much quality time as he can squeeze in, trips to the park despite the early chill in the air, picnic supplies carried in plastic bags. The older kids are dragged along, despite their protests, and they eat sandwiches at wooden tables and on the swings, flush with the bounty of Sharon’s recent grocery trip. John plays Barbies and My Little Ponies, he shoots zombies with mini-guns and uncovers diamond swords in imaginary chests hidden in the bushes. He plays ring-around-the-rosie until he thinks they’ll throw up, and makes up verses to songs he’s heard once, over the sound of their screaming laughter. Then it's their weekly visit to the library and St. Swithins, chores, the older kids helping the younger with their homework, baths, and bed, and before he knows it, it's late Sunday night and he's made it through another one. Tay Tay did not appear during their visit, not that John is surprised; he will try again next week.

He doesn’t tell Bruce or Selina about his conversation with Bane. He’s not exactly sure why. All he knows is that when he sits down across from them, and they manage to take a break from talking about the party that weekend, all he sees is Bruce’s sneer at Bane’s offer to let them join him. 

“Sorry you couldn’t make it,” Bruce says, sounding less sorry and more considering. Selina agrees with an exaggerated pouty face. 

John shrugs. “S’okay. I had stuff to do. I’ll catch the next one.”

They both nod, and John appreciates the way they don’t call him on either of his lies. “So, what else did you two love birds do this weekend?”

He eats what was displayed on the menu as “chicken teriyaki” and listens to them talk, their excited regaling of everyday-things-made-magical-because-of-the-person-you’re-with making him feel not _completely_ like shit, only _mostly_ like shit. 

He laughs at the right places and asks questions in the right places, but his heart’s not really in it. Bruce notices because that’s what Bruce does. 

“You alright?” Bruce does sound concerned, and he thaws a little. He thinks about telling him about Bane but chooses instead to tell him about Sam’s last minute essay and the zombie apocalypse he saved everyone from, you’re welcome. He wants to roll the Bane conversation around in his head for a little while longer. 

It’s not that he was looking forward to Humanities, he was just curious. Bane had said some interesting things to him, and he'd brought up a few good points in class, too. He thinks Ms. Bishop might be curious as well. He sits down in his regular seat and forces himself not to look at Bane when he enters. He pulls out a notebook and buries his nose in it. That is a mistake, though. He should have been watching Ms. Bishop. 

"Okay, class! Welcome back, I hope your weekend was great. You know, the thing I love about this class is the change of pace we all get here: you, me, everyone. We can talk about things we've learned in other classes, we can learn about new things, and if we need to, we can change directions and talk about something completely different."

She walks toward the board with purpose and John's interest is piqued. "On Friday we’d started discussing politics in the early 20th century," she says like she'd brought it up and just hadn't had enough time to cover it the way she'd wanted. "We will finish that topic today, and then at the end of class, I've got a surpriiiiiiiise for youuuuuu!"

Her trill falls on a sea of blank faces, except for, John assumes, the one that's mostly covered up. That one is probably grinning from ear to ear. 

They spend the next 40 minutes talking about early century politics, which sound like she'd printed off a Wikipedia page, with vague references to its influences on art and literature. But John could appreciate the attempt. 

"And now!" she claps, "for the surprise!"

She hands each person a piece of paper with their name at the top. It's a syllabus, John supposes, although he's never seen one before. 

“The rest of the semester, we are going to be working on two major projects, and at the end, you will do an in-class presentation that will count for a _significant_ portion of your grade.” Something about the way she stresses the word “significant” combined with the stern look she gives like they better take this seriously, tells him that she still hasn’t quite figured out how much that portion will be. “But don't worry!” she continues. “You'll have help! You have been assigned a partner; their name is at the bottom of your paper.

Oh, God. John knows, without looking, who it will be. Because ~~this is fic~~ this is exactly how his life goes. Instead of looking at the paper, he looks at the rest of the class, every one of whom is glancing around and making eye contact with their partner, and no one is looking at him. With a grimace, he glances at the paper. Yuuuup. Surpriiiiiiiiiiiiise. 

“Okay, class, settle down,” she says to a class that is resoundingly already settled. "The first portion of the project will be a research paper. I expect you to research and write a five-page paper," she raises her voice to be heard over the groans, "regarding existing politically fueled art, music, literature, etc. This can be from any time period. Don't forget you can talk about books that you might be reading for other classes, like Animal Farm? I know the sophomores read that book this year. You can also discuss The Beatles or other musicians whose music is politically fueled. Those are two freebies for you. I expect you to cover at least two other artists, works, books, poetry, etc. in your final paper. You can include those two if you want also. Now! For the other portion!"

John's stomach is definitely in literal knots. He can feel them. There's some kind of sailor’s square sitting behind his navel that was not there this morning. "You and your partner will research current events and create a work inspired by them. You will need to present proof of your current event, like a newspaper article, or online article _with sources_ , and be able to explain it to the class. Then you will present and explain your art, poetry, song, interpretive dance, whatever you're doing. If you have a question about what you can do, or if you're not sure if your work will be acceptable, please come talk to me first. Your work must be directly motivated by your current event. You must be able to explain the correlation. Does anyone have any general questions? Okay, then I will give you the last few minutes to get with your partner and start discussing. Remember, you will work together on the paper, and you will work together on the current event, and you will work together on the final presentation. There will be checkpoints along the way to see where you are! Alright, partner up!"

Immediately, half the class stands and starts talking, loudly, the other half lines up at her desk to either complain about their partner or possibly figure out the loophole that allows them to show boobs in their final presentation.

John turns around to find a pair of eye crinkles that are decidedly smug. 

"Proud of yourself, are you?"

"Indeed," says Bane. 

John shakes his head and sighs, but says, "Well, I assume you've already got something in mind?"

"I do not," Bane says, not the least bit abashed. "You were here for her pronouncement. This is a group project."

"Yeah, well, I hate group projects. So let's just get this over with."

Bane inclines his head in agreement and John grabs the syllabus. Together the discuss the specifics she outlined and talk about possible eras they might be interested in researching. They unanimously agree not to use the topics she brought up, but to find new ones. They also agree to focus on the paper portion first, rather than jump into the project.

"So, are you doing this in your other classes?" John asks. 

"Am I doing what?" Bane asks, all innocence and muscle mass.

John rolls his eyes. "Trying to get the teachers to change their plans for the rest of the year."

"I want only what is best for the people. The unfortunate few who are required to teach us are not my concern. I demand more from those providing the information I need to make it in the world, as should we all."

John thinks about that one and decides he agrees. He does not, however, envy Bane's teachers. "They must hate everything about you."

He shrugs. “Their influence and infrastructure have been important until now.”

"Is that right. Well, pretending that’s a normal thing to say, have you had any successes yet? Besides this one, I mean?"

"Nothing on this scale, no. But minor ones, yes."

"And Barsad? He on your education revolution crew?"

"I have many on my 'crew' as you call it. The senior class should be more invested in their education. It is just a matter of making them understand it is in their best interest. For now, they are content to disrupt class and annoy the educators. They'll soon see that they are, despite their best efforts, learning. And, at the same time, learning what to demand."

John raises an eyebrow at that but lets it go. 

"Why do you dislike group projects?" Bane asks, his voice softly curious.

"I didn't say I dislike them," John says.

"You did actually, you said— "

"I said I hate them. And it's because not one of those group projects have ever been anything other than me doing all the work and everyone else getting equal credit. Group projects are never fun for me."

Bane gives him an odd look but doesn't say anything. Then, the final bell rings, and he doesn't have time to ask him anything. At least, he thought he didn’t. Except that Bane doesn't leave. He trails slightly behind John all the way to his locker, a warm shadow that captures almost all of John's attention. When John slams the locker shut and turns to leave, he practically face-plants into Bane's chest.

"Um," he says, looking up, and up, to Bane's eyes. They're soft and fond, and John feels his neck start to heat.

Suddenly, Bane's gaze flickers to somewhere over John's shoulder, and it's like a switch has been flipped. "We will talk tomorrow, little one," he rumbles softly, then he's gone. 

John blinks, then turns to watch him walk away to where Barsad is waiting for him, and also to where Bruce is striding down the hall toward John.

"John!" Bruce calls, jogging to catch him. "Hey, come on, I'll give you a ride home."

"Ahh..." John waffles, but he doesn't have to be anywhere tonight, and a ride would be nice. He just has to come up with something to talk about that isn't Bane. "Alright, sure."

He walks with Bruce out to his flashy black Corvette, feeling as out of place as always while Bruce throws his backpack onto the leather with the casual ease of someone who doesn't realize the price of things. Truthfully, Bruce would probably have been just fine with a Honda Civic, but he understands about reputation and probably representation in a way John never will. John, however, sits gingerly, certain he's going to break something expensive.

"So," Bruce starts, "how have you been, man? I feel like I haven't talked to you in forever."

"Good, yeah. Busy, but..." he smiles to himself, "good."

"Yeah?" Bruce slides the car into first and floors it, racing out of the parking lot like he always does. "What was all that about in the hallway? With Bane."

Shit. "I— "

But John doesn't have to think of a response because just as Bruce is shifting into second to speed out of the lot, some other douche canoe is doing the same thing. Bruce hits them, John hits the dashboard, and then John doesn't have to think of anything for quite a while.

 

John wakes up slowly, a drudge of voices coming to him through the sea of mud in his head. His first response is to try and roll onto his side, his preferred sleeping position, but it's like he's being held down. 

"Gngh," he says, trying to peel open his eyelids.

"John?" comes Bruce's voice.

"Ah, hello there, welcome back," comes someone else's. It's an older man, someone he doesn't know. John's eyes fly open on instinct, and he regards the grizzled man in a white coat. He's in a hospital. He's in a bed with monitors taped to him and the lights in his room have been dimmed.

"John? How are you feeling?" Bruce asks, standing by his bedside.

John looks around, trying to remember what he's doing here. "Hurts. My head. And my face." He looks back at Bruce. “What happened?”

Bruce casts a panicked look at the doctor, and the doctor steps forward.

"How about we take a look, son?" he says, holding a pen light. "My name is Dr. Stephens. We're just going to check you for a concussion and make sure nothing else is broken in that big brain of yours, alright?" he smiles as he waves the light in front of John's eyes. 

"Nothing else? What's broken?" John asks.

The doctor smiled at him fondly. "Your nose."

"My nose is broken?" John asks stupidly, reaching up to touch his face without thinking. He bumps it on accident and the flare of pain is immediate and white-hot. "Ow," he says, trying to breathe slowly. "Yeah, okay, good assessment."

"Christ, you were bleeding everywhere. I thought you were dead." Bruce says, his voice tight.

"I was?" John feels like they're telling him the storyline of a soap opera he doesn't watch. It's all getting very confusing and there are too many people.

"Don't you remember?" Bruce asks. "Should we be worried about that, Doctor?"

The doctor smiles benevolently again. "Not necessarily. We'll check a few more things. Now, John, can you squeeze this in your right hand," he says, passing over that weird hammer for hitting your knee, "and hold it out at chest height?"

John takes it, suddenly worried his arm won't obey him. But it does, and he holds it, concentrating. His face throbs.

"Good! That's very good. Now, the left hand."

John repeats the process. 

"Excellent, thank you. Next, we'll do a sensation test, just tell me if you can feel the pressure I'm applying here." He compresses John's toes.

"Yes."

"Here?" He compresses John's fingertips.

"Yes."

"Perfect. Now, can you tell me what my name is?"

"Uh..." John panics as he stares at the kindly face and draws a blank. "Oh, God, you just told me. I'm so sorry."

"That's quite alright," he says. "I think we'll take you for another CT scan though, just to see if there are any changes with activity, and we'll probably keep you overnight for observation."

Bruce says, "Good," just as John says, "Oh, no, no, no, that's not okay."

The doctor looks back and forth between them. "Why is that not okay, John?" he finally asks. 

"I've got responsibilities, I can't just leave them." He's starting to feel tired. Not just regular tired, but can't-keep-my-eyes-open tired. He rests his head back against the pillow. It'll be a lot easier to talk if he doesn't have to focus on holding up his head.

He can see the doctor cast a glance to Bruce, but Bruce is so far away, he can't really see the point in turning his head to look at him if he's just going to have to look back at the doctor again in a second. 

"Can you tell me the last thing you do remember, John?" the doctor asks. 

John's eyes drift shut. He's still listening, it’s just that his eyelids are so heavy. It'll be easier to focus without them. "Bane," he mumbles. "Bane's chest," he clarifies. " 's nice."

"Mmm," he hears from far away. "Get some rest, we'll run that CT scan a bit later."

"Mmkay." Then blackness, sweet blackness.

 

When John wakes up, there's a cop in his room.

He stiffens, sees Bruce in the far chair, and tries to suppress the flutter of apprehension. 

"Hey, there he is!" the cop says with a grin. "Just came to see how you were doing! Thought I might have missed you."

John is completely lost. "Uh... hi. I'm good. I think."

He laughs, a big, boisterous sound that takes up the whole room, and is too loud. "Well, you look like you went a few rounds with a bear. You should see the other guy, though, am I right?"

John tries to smile and touches his face, much more carefully this time. The wrapping is still there, something stiff taped over his nose. "Hopefully I got in a few good hits," he says.

The cop laughs again and drops off a folder on the table by John's bed. "Well, I just wanted to drop that off for you. If you ever need anything, you just let me know, alright? Anything at all."

John gives him a small, bewildered nod, and he leaves with a cheery wave. John looks helplessly at Bruce. "Who the hell was that?"

Bruce gives him a half smile. "Figured you didn't know. God, I thought you were going to propose to him earlier."

John blanches. "What?"

"He was there after we had the accident. You were getting all sappy, telling him you wanted to be him when you grew up," Bruce chuckled. "I think he wants to recruit you."

"Accident?" John asks vaguely, reaching for the folder. "Oh, is that what happened? I remember getting in your car, and then..." He shrugs. 

Bruce shrugs back. "The doctor said not to worry about it, it happens with concussions. You passed out but you were awake by the time the ambulance came. And Officer Ortiz there is your new best friend."

"Is that what he said?" John says, placing the Police Academy forms and brochure back on the tray.

"No," Bruce says, smiling at him. "That's what _you_ said."

John smiles back, but it hurts and he has to stop. 

"Anyway," Bruce says, standing. "You have to stay here overnight, and then you're out of school for the next two days. You're not supposed to watch TV or basically do anything mentally stimulating."

"Well, I should probably just go to school then," John says.

"That's what I told them, but," Bruce holds out his hands helplessly, "no one listens to me."

"Bull," John says because he knows better. Everyone listens to a Wayne. "But thanks."

He meets Bruce’s eyes so he knows John means thanks for answering questions, for staying with him, and for most likely explaining the Sharon situation so he didn't have to. Bruce nods.

"I talked to Sharon," he says like he knows what John is thinking, and hell, he probably does. "She knows you're supposed to be resting. Look, I gotta go, but when you get discharged tomorrow, just tell them to call me and I'll come get you."

"Won't you be in school?" John challenges.

Bruce waves his hand dismissively in answer and John rolls his eyes. 

"Wait, pick me up in what? You have a second Corvette stashed somewhere?"

Bruce manages to look slightly embarrassed.

"Jesus, you do." John drops his head back and stares at the ceiling. "Wow. How come you couldn't at least have broken something also?" he asks no one in particular. 

Bruce leaves just as the sun is setting, and John realizes he's slept most of the day away.   
His head aches faintly as if from far away, his face aches slightly more. They've taken the TV remote.

He sighs, tries to get more comfortable, sighs again. He closes his eyes, counts sheep, and finally, gives up. When he opens them, there is a shadow blocking the light from the hallway, and a form emerges from the darkness. 

"Bane," John breathes, "what are you doing here?"

"I heard you were injured, little one. I was coming to check on you." His voice sounds quieter in the dark. Or maybe he's keeping his voice low. Either way, John appreciates it. 

"I'm alright. How did you even hear about me?"

"I have my ways," comes the vague reply. "Are you truly well?"

"Just a concussion," John gives a half shrug. "I was just thinking that I can’t remember the last time I laid around not doing anything. It’s… well, it’s infuriating.”

There’s a sound which might be a chuckle and he steps closer. “Your face is covered.” 

John touched the bandages on his nose self-consciously. “Yeah, I guess I broke my nose on Bruce’s dash. Maybe if I’m lucky I’ll get one like yours.”

“No.” There’s no trace of laughter in Bane’s voice anymore. “No, that would not do.”

The air is heavy and John clears his throat. “Well, I should be back to normal before—” 

There's a knock on the door and the doctor comes in again to check on him before the end of his shift. 

"Hello, John! How are we feeling?"

"I'm alright, thanks, Dr. Stephens." He never misses the opportunity to use the man's name, ever since the first time when he couldn't remember it. 

He smiles kindly from where he's checking John's chart. "Is it alright to discuss your test results in front of..." He trails off and looks at Bane. 

"Oh," John fumbles. "Uh, I guess so. Dr. Stephens, this is Bane. Bane, this is Dr. Stephens."

"Ahhh, the infamous Bane! Nice to meet you!" 

Bane stiffens at the word 'infamous', but he can't really turn down the proffered hand, especially combined with a judgment-free smile. This, of course, is when John vaguely remembers telling Bruce and the doctor about Bane's nice chest and feels his entire body turn red. 

He tells John that his CT scans look clear, and all he needs to do is rest and let his head heal. 

"Nothing stressful, alright? You take it easy."

"Sure, Dr. Stephens," says John, who knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that the second he walks in the door to the duplex, it will be business as usual.

"Excuse me," says Bane, his low rumble filling the room, "what if that's not possible? How detrimental would that be?"

John glares at him, and the doctor's forehead wrinkles with concern. "Well, it would slow the healing process down, you could potentially injure yourself more. I don't like to speculate, but it is important you don't overtax yourself. Two full days off, nothing strenuous or mentally taxing. Then half days of school for a week and take breaks when you need to after that."

"I will definitely do that, thank you, Doc— "

"I will make him do that, thank you, Doctor," Bane says over the top of him. The doctor smiles at Bane approvingly. 

“Good man.”

He shakes both of their hands again before excusing himself and closing the door softly behind him.

There’s a fight here to be had if John felt any inclination to have it. “You’ll make me do that, huh? How are you going to do that?” But there’s no heat behind it. He’s exhausted. 

The silence descends as Bane deigns not to answer and John would shift his weight if he wasn’t so tired. He draws the blanket in between his fingers. Bane doesn’t move a muscle.

"Um," John tries again, "thank you for coming. It was... really nice of you." And it was nice. Which went against everything John thought he knew about Bane. He looks again at the guy in front of him, a wall of bulk and slate blue/gray eyes, soft with concern and the awkwardness of the situation. He tries to reconcile him with the bully who'd held Tyler up against the lockers on his first day.

"I didn't do it to be nice," Bane says with disdain. Ah. There it is. John would have grinned if it didn't hurt so bad.

"Oh no?" He lays his head back a little, just so he can focus on the rumble of Bane's voice.

Bane takes another step forward. "No," he says, and John swears his voice gets lower and softer, although he didn't think it was possible. "I needed to make sure you weren't going to run out on your half of the paper." 

This time John does grin. "Ow," he chuckles softly.

"This is always the way of it. Whenever I am assigned a group project, I carry the weight of the team on my own back."

John smiles at him again but closes his eyes. "Well, I'll try not to let you down."

"See that you don't."

That is the last thing John hears before sleep takes him, and the echo of Bane's voice follows him down.

 

He sleeps fitfully that night, so in the morning when the nurses come in for checks, he is up and asking about being discharged. They tell him the doctor will be in at 10, so he waits. His shirt has his blood on it, and he'd like a shower, but not until he's got clean clothes to put on afterward. He takes the soaps that are in the in the ensuite bathroom though. 

Bruce, true to his word, shows up to take him home, his replacement Corvette a different generation but still black. He settles carefully in the front seat, and Bruce looks at him seriously.

"I appreciate you letting me drive you. That must have been a difficult decision." 

John rolls his eyes because he tried making a face yesterday and that fucking hurts. "I don't have a car, Bruce. I'm not really in shape to walk, so I appreciate you driving me." 

"I'm trying to apologize," Bruce says, sounding annoyed as his hands tighten on the steering wheel. 

"You should stop," John says. "You really suck at it." He gives Bruce a small smile, even though he's _got_ to stop doing that.

He leans his head back on the headrest. "Just drive."

He dozes because when the car slows down, they are at a Starbucks drive-thru even though he doesn’t know how they got there. Bruce rolls down the window and pulls his sunglasses down to his chin. 

"Can I get a venti Americano and a triple espresso, and..." he turns to John. "Do you think the kids would want frappuccinos? I'm buying."

John blinks at him. "You mean... _my_ kids? Bruce. Please don't buy the four-year-olds frappuccinos. Please. What did I ever do to you?"

Bruce clearly doesn't understand but turns back to the window with a sigh. "And that's it."

They get their total and Bruce pulls around to pay, and John can't help but swallow a laugh. "Caffeine isn't good for kids, plus it makes them all crazy. But thanks for the thought." 

"Sorry, I'm just not around a lot of kids."

"I'm sure you will be some day. And lesson one is: don't give them caffeine. Ever. Treat it like cocaine. They shouldn't even know what it is until they're old enough to say no to it." 

Bruce looks doubtful but passes John his coffee and when he drops John off, he even comes to the door and says hi to the kids inside. John feels a swell of pride at his obvious growth.

Sharon takes off as soon as she see’s John’s face, “running errands”, and John spends the rest of the day trying to convince the littles not to crawl on him, that no, he really isn't feeling well, and no, he doesn't want to play. They watch TV, even though he's not supposed to, the kids giddy with all the screen time John is allowing and he closes his eyes as much as possible. The cuddle time is worth it.

He's dozing on the couch when the doorbell rings, and he jerks awake, but not before Alejandro races to open the door. "Han! How many times have I told you not to open the door unless you know—"

Alejandro's scream slams against the walls in John's head and he's on his feet and reaching for the aluminum bat Sharon keeps next to the refrigerator for just such occasions. 

"Motherfucker, get the fuck— Bane!" The huge form lurking in his front door quirks an eyebrow at the bat he's wielding, and okay, yeah, against Bane it looks a little silly, but it did the trick on a guy or two of Sharon's who hadn't gotten the picture and needed to have it spelled out. Doesn't mean he isn't blushing though.

"What are you doing here?" he asks instead, hiding the bat down by his leg.

Bane holds out a manila folder without a word and John steps forward to take it and flip it open.

"Oh, joy. Homework," he says, tipping a small grin up at Bane anyway. "Thanks." Bane inclines his head and turns like he's going to go, and John blurts out, "Do you want to come in?"

He’s not sure what makes him say it other than the desire for a conversation with someone more than three feet high. Bane hesitates, his sharp eyes flitting over the group of kids behind John, each of them staring in mute horror/wonder at the monster on their doorstep.

John steps back, wordlessly inviting him in, putting the bat away and storing the homework folder on top of the microwave. Bane slowly comes in the door and closes it softly behind him. 

“Can I take your coat?”

Bane shakes his head, and okay, but it’s not like John was going to steal it or anything.

"Kids, this is Bane. He's… he goes to my school."

There's not really a response, but four little faces come out from behind John a little, intrigued by the idea that John knows people that they aren't even aware of. He steps around them and sits on the couch again, the kids flowing after him like baby ducklings. 

Bane stands in the middle of the living room, and John realizes he hasn't said a single word since he got here. 

"So," he says, gesturing for Bane to sit also. "How did you know where I lived?" He pulls Han to sit between him and the arm of the couch because he's been holding on to John's jeans like a lifeline ever since he screamed loud enough to wake the dead. 

"I have my ways," Bane says, and Olivia giggles.

"Your voice is funny," she says. "How come you gots that thing on your face?"

"Alright, Livers, that's not polite, why don't we—"

"It's alright," Bane interrupts him. "It helps me breathe easier and reduces my pain." He looks directly at Olivia and addresses her the same way he'd address an adult. With a slight edge to his voice. Olivia, however, is undeterred.

"Can I try it on?" she asks.

"Okay, that's enough bothering Bane," John says, standing. "Let's all have some apples, what do you say?"

There's a rousing cheer and cajoling for "each own apples", but John splits them in half anyway and sets aside a few for the older kids when they get home from school. Which makes John check the clock on the stove. They should be home soon; Humanities must have let out early today if Bane is here already. 

"Ms. Bishop must already be worn out, huh? Did she let you guys out early?"

"She did not," Bane says. "We were to work on our projects with our partners, so I informed her I would do just that and left."

John gives a huff of a laugh at Bane informing the teacher he was leaving.

Bane gives John a critical once-over. "You are supposed to be resting. And you took off your bandages."

John leans back against the counter and crosses his arms. "Yeah, well. They wouldn't give me a cool mask like yours, so I decided, fuck it."

Bane's eyebrows slam down at his profanity, but John knows these kids have heard far worse. "Caring for children should not be your responsibility. Is there no one else?"

John smirks. "You volunteering there, big guy?" 

Bane's eyebrows do not rise, and he stands. "You should be resting," he says again, his voice low, and John chooses not to take it as a threat.

"Yeah, well," he says with a sigh, "I'll rest when I'm dead. Here, Joey, put that in the garbage, please. And take your thumb out of your mouth."

Joey, his thumb still firmly in his mouth, climbs down to throw away the piece of apple skin he picked from his teeth.

Bane's hand on his forearm is surprising, warm and heavy. "Please sit down." It doesn't sound like a request.

John frowns up at him but allows himself to be dragged over to the couch. "Alright, jeeze. I was kidding anyway."

"You were not."

John rolls his eyes but doesn't deny it. "I'm not supposed to be thinking either, you know. I told them they should just let me go to school then, but..." he smiles at Bane, trying to share his same dumb joke, but Bane's scowl stays in place.

"I am working on correcting that," he says, elbows on his knees, "but you are delicate."

John stiffens. "Alright, fuck you. That's not okay. If you wanted to leave, you could have just left. You don't need to make me kick you out."

Bane looks confused. 

"I'm not fucking delicate, asshole. I'm fine. I got a little bump on the head. It's fine."

Bane gives him that look again like he's a fuzzy fucking bunny or something, and John's head pounds with the surge of anger that rushes through him. 

"Your shirt still has blood on it."

John looks down in surprise, because yes, he's still wearing his shirt from two days ago, where he'd smashed open his face but luckily not his skull.

"Okay, fine, yeah, but there wasn't anyone here to watch the kids while I was in the shower, and I figured I'd just wait until after they were asleep or something." Or tomorrow morning. Or he'd completely forgotten. Whatever.

Bane straightened. "I will watch them," he says solemnly.

John raises an eyebrow, which fucking hurts and he drops it immediately, but Bane just looks back at him. He glances over at the kids, happily munching on apples and sitting around the kitchen island, swinging their legs. "You sure about that? Those apples won't last forever."

Bane doesn't back down. "You had best hurry, then."

Of course Bane doesn't back down. John wonders if he knows how. "Fine, fine. I'm going. But if I come back out and they've torn you limb from limb, I'm not even going to call the cops because it was clearly a suicide."

"I absolve you of all guilt."

John scoffs, but grabs his towel and a change of clothes from the stack next to his mattress and ducks into the bathroom before Bane can change his mind. Because now the thought is in his head, a shower sounds like heaven. His dick makes its Pavlovian response to getting under the spray, but John ignores it because Bane is sitting in his fucking living room, and he cannot jack off mere feet away from him. He tries to think about school, Sharon, the kids, the cosmos, hoping that he'll be presentable by the time he gets out. For once, he's okay with a cold shower.

He's semi-under control when he gets out, and he doesn't bother wiping the steam off the mirror. Frankly, he's not all that interested in looking at the disconcerting amount of bruising he's got going on over his face and forehead. No wonder Bane wanted him to sit down. But he feels marginally better and he puts his shirt in the sink to soak, dresses, and heads out to find out the damage. 

Bane is still sitting on the couch, but there's a crowd of tiny faces at his feet now as he holds something out to them and they gather closer to see. John leans forward. 

It's a cats-in-the-cradle string that he's attempting to teach Micah, the youngest, and Olivia is "helping" by bossing him around. Bane talks Micah through the places to put his tiny fingers, his tone calm and patient. John is entranced as he expertly transfers the string to Micah's hands, and Micah squawks his excitement at holding the cradle. He claps with glee, ruining the effect, and John can't help but laugh. 

Bane looks up at him, his eyes soft. 

"Looks like they didn't tear you limb from limb, at least," John says. He takes some painkillers, drinks a glass of water, and that's when the front door slams open and the older kids pour in, a stream of bubbly conversation that screeches to an abrupt halt as they spot Bane inside. 

"Hey, guys," John greets them. To his surprise, Kat and Mollie run to hug him. 

"We were so worried about you!" Mollie exclaims, and holy shit, there are tears in her voice. Kat doesn't look at him, just buries her face in his shoulder. "She wouldn't let us come visit you, and no one would tell us anything when we called, and we didn't know when you'd be back..." Her voice wobbles and she stops talking, and John pats their backs awkwardly. 

"It's alright, I'm alright," he says quietly, and fuck, now his voice is getting tight, and Bane is sitting right there watching all of this. He clears his throat and takes a step back. "It looks worse than it is. Honest. I'll be fine. Do you guys want some apples?" He glances over his shoulder to Sam, so he knows he's included and John is taken aback by the barely controlled emotion on Sam's face too. 

"Guys! I'm alright, I promise!" he says again. Bane clears his throat.

John glances at him, where he's looking at John significantly. John rolls his eyes. 

"Fine, I'm supposed to be resting, but it—"

"We can help!"

"Let us do it!"

Kat and Mollie scramble over each other to start chores, and Sam quietly goes to the boy's room to put his backpack away. John glances at Bane quickly.

"Can you excuse me for a second? I'll be right back." He feels less guilty abandoning Bane now that the girls are there and he knows Bane isn't in imminent danger of death by preschooler.

Sam is sitting on the bed he shares with Joey, pulling old papers out of his bag and trying to look busy so he doesn't have to meet John's eyes. John doesn't say anything, just sits down next to him and pulls him in for a fierce hug. Sam buries his face and John holds him tight until his arms finally come up to hug John back. Sam’s shoulders shake and John makes vague sounds of comfort, stroking his back and hair. 

When Sam finally calms enough, John pulls back and grabs a pencil and paper from his bag. On the edge of the paper, he draws a long line, puts zero at one end and 82.67 at the other. It's a familiar ritual, so it doesn't matter that the baby he draws at zero doesn't really look like a baby. “Here’s where you’re born,” he says. 

The skull and crossbones at the other end aren't recognizable to anyone but them. “And here’s the average lifespan of a white American male in Illinois.” He marks 16 on the number line. “Here’s me,” and the stick person he draws there has sticky-out ears like he does. “And here’s you.” The one he draws at 11 has glasses like Sam. 

Sam takes the pencil from his hand and draws an X through the stick person at 16. John takes it back and erases the X. He draws a bump on the stick person's head, then an arrow for himself all the way to the end, then one for Sam all the way to the end. “We’ve got a long way to go. Don’t give up on me yet.”

He folds the paper and puts it under Sam's pillow. John hugs him once more, then leaves. Sam hasn’t said a word, but he hopes Sam knows he's here for him, always. He's not leaving. 

Bane is watching for him when he returns. Micah is sitting next to him on the couch, Bane’s string in between his hands, trying to do the first step of the cat’s cradle by himself (No! I do it!). Bane doesn't look uncomfortable, but he stands when John comes over. 

“I should go.”

Bane looks large and over warm in his coat. John hears the silence settling over the room and realizes every pair of ears at the kitchen island are tuned in to hear what he says next. 

“Ah, sure, I’ll walk you out.”

Bane nods, his face unreadable. “Micah,” he says, addressing the 3-year-old, “keep practicing. I will be back to see your progress.”

Micah nods seriously, hands still working on getting the string to stay on his fingers. John holds the front door open, then once Bane is safely outside, he glares at every single person smirking at him. “Shut up,” he whispers in his fiercest growl. 

Kat and Mollie start the “Oooooooh!” and everyone makes kissy noises as he slams the door shut as fast as he can. God, how were they so embarrassing?

He isn’t sure how much Bane heard, but John shoves his hands in his pockets with his entire face flaming red under his bruises. Bane doesn’t comment, and now his coat looks at home in the afternoon chill.

Bane stares out into the neighborhood, the small white puffs out the sides of his mask an almost familiar sight. John thinks he catches the faint scent of eucalyptus in the clouds, but he can't be sure. 

"Where is their guardian?" Bane says stiffly, and John wants to sink into the cement because he must have heard those idiots and now he feels weird around John. Great. 

He tries to laugh it off. "Who, Sharon? Probably the nearest bar. She won’t be back for a while.”

The look Bane gives him is making him uncomfortable because the truth is, Sharon is actually not that bad compared to some of the fosters he’s been stuck with. She mainly leaves them alone, she’s not a mean drunk, and none of the kids are scared of her. Those are some high marks in his book. 

He cannot believe he is mentally defending Sharon right now. 

“So! Did you get your fill of preschoolers? Better than all the sex ed and birth control classes combined, am I right?”

Bane's eyes are crinkled when he looks at John, and he thinks, maybe, they might still be okay.

“I came to discuss the project with you.”

“Ah, well, I'm not supposed to be working on homework. Doctor's orders. Stop trying to keep me from resting, will ya?"

"I see.” Bane's teasing voice is like a balm. “And do you always do the right thing?" 

"I have a healthy respect for authority, yeah."

"Mmm. That is not what I asked. But an interesting answer to the question, nonetheless.” He puts his hands in his coat pockets. “I, however, do not have a healthy respect for authority. I think that is the essential difference between us, little Robin."

John's stomach does an odd flip-flop at Bane's use of his name. He tries to tuck that observation away to be examined later.

"But do _you_ always do the right thing? That's the question." He's teasing too, but he's not. Bane is a scary guy. That first day, threatening to choke John with his lanyard, John still isn’t sure how far he'd have gone. He understands the prison yard mentality of your first day at a new school, but it is a... daunting thought.

"If you do not view it within the confines of authority, yes. I always do the right thing."

John can’t help the raised eyebrow. Thankfully, his painkillers are kicking in. "Interesting answer, yourself."

Bane gives him an approving glance. "I believe the school could be well improved by being razed to the ground and forced to start anew. I was curious to know your thoughts."

John laughs, a short bark into the autumn air. Then he glances over at Bane. 

"Oh, god. You're serious! Wait. You're _serious_?!"

Bane appears a bit concerned at John's obvious disapproval. "I am. I was debating using it as a form of artistic expression. I thought we could use it as part of our final project."

"Jesus." John goes to run a hand down his face, then hisses in a breath at the flare of pain. Stupid. "Look, you can't just go around burning down buildings. We can come up with something else for a final project."

"I'm not sure you're giving the idea the consideration it deserves, but for now: what did you have in mind?"

John stares at the ceiling of yellowed leaves and wonders how this became his life. "Well, what about something with music? You seem to know a lot about Tchaikovsky, I can sing, a little bit. What if we do something with that?" 

He can't be sure, but he thinks Bane might be frowning under there. "That is not an option. What else?"

"Uh..." John tries not to furrow his brow because his painkillers are glorified aspirin and not fucking morphine. "I'm not sure, I haven't—"

"Please forgive me, Robin," Bane interrupts him. John blinks at the change of pace. "You are indeed supposed to be resting, and I am imposing."

"No, it's fine, you don't—"

"I would hate to overstay my welcome. Please extend my gratitude to Micah and Livers."

John's lips twitch at Bane's formal use of the nickname. "Uh, sure. And her name's Olivia, I just call her that sometimes."

"Of course." Bane gives an odd half-bow before turning to go. Then, a few steps down the walk, he pauses and turns back. “Selina Kyle was mistaken.”

John looks at him, confused. 

“She said you do not have a family.”

Bane meets his eyes, and John blinks. “I…” he glances back at the front door, behind which are seven people who were worried about him, and who were probably at this very moment jostling for position at the crack in the curtains to see what is going on. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess I do.”

"It was an honor to meet them."

He turns and leaves, melting into the gathering shadows like they are a part of him.

 

The girls coordinate chores and homework while he sits on the couch and reads books to Joey and Han, then Oliva and Micah, then all of the littles. When he catches Sam looking over from the island instead of doing his homework, he reads a little louder. If Dr. Stephens has an issue with Dr. Seuss, he’s going to let the two of them duke it out at the next medical conference. 

Then the girls take the kids outside to play until supper time, and he feels guilty as fuck but enjoys the quiet. He makes baked potatoes in the microwave and serves them with some canned soup poured over the top because he’s tired and that’s all he can handle right now. 

But he thinks about Bane’s pronouncement of his family as he watches all of them gather around the kitchen island, setting out plates and arguing over the yellow one, which is everyone’s favorite for some reason.

Sharon walks in the front door hours before he expects her. John has just gotten the littles headed towards the bathroom to brush their teeth and is trying to clean up from the hasty meal while stuffing their leftovers in his mouth. Sharon comes in quietly, still reeking of smoke but surprisingly sober. Of course, it's still early. She stands at the front door for a few moments, long enough for John to wonder why, and then she comes towards him. He stiffens.

"I can clean up. You should go lay down for a bit."

John swallows the bite of potato he'd crammed in his mouth, partially out of shock and partially so he can gape at her. "What?"

"You look like shit," she says, but it’s not entirely unkind. "Go lay down. I can get them ready for bed."

John has his doubts, but he's also having a hard time keeping his eyes open, and if Sharon wants today to be the day she decides to help out, it's a good day for it. He's not going to complain.

Sharon getting them ready for bed consists of lots of yelling, crying, and not sleeping, for John or anyone else. But she hasn't asked for his help, and he's going to lay in the corner with his eyes closed and angrily refuse to feel guilty.

He must doze off at some point because when Sharon flops down on the couch, not far from his mattress, it wakes him up. When he opens his eyes, she’s watching him, her gaze assessing.

“I don’t want you to have boys over when I’m not here.”

John lifts his head; his first reaction is rage. There’s some defensiveness and embarrassment there too, but mostly flat-out fury. How dare she tell him what to do? She has no room to talk, he’s never once called her out on her behavior, and he wasn’t even doing anything wrong! Bane had brought him his homework, for god’s sake. 

It’s the thought of Bane and him defining them as ‘family’ that stops him. For once, John’s mouth doesn’t get the better of him. He thinks over her words and it might be the first time he’s heard her actually act like a parent. Well. It’s a whole night of firsts. 

He lays his head back down and closes his eyes. “Okay,” he says. It might be the most civil conversation they’ve ever had. It’s not until he’s drifting off again that it occurs to him to wonder how she knew Bane had been there.

 

John doesn’t see Bane for a week after that. His required time off school means that he is gone before lunch, and it’s either Bruce or Selina that bring him his assignments. But he’s got a pretty good idea where the box of groceries he finds on the front step came from. It’s the kind of thing Bruce would offer to do, but would respect when John flat out tells him no. They eat it all.

He sleeps a lot, reads a lot of Hop on Pop, and the duplex has never been cleaner. But he’s actually looking forward to going back to school. His face is basically back to normal on his first full day back, and he might have spent a little extra time in front of the mirror that morning before rolling his eyes at himself. The bruises are an atrocious shade of yellow-green, but it’s better than before. 

John won’t admit to himself how fast his heart is beating when lunch rolls around, and he slides his tray onto the lunch table. “Hey guys, glad to see you missed me.”

“Hey, man,” Bruce grins at him and Selina unglues herself from Bruce’s side to say, “Hiya Johnny boy.”

John grins back, and because he is apparently an infant with no self-control, glances over to where he knows Bane is sitting. Knows because Bane is an eclipse— he blocks out the sun, but it’s almost your duty to look.

He expects Bane to be looking at him. Fine, he admits it. He didn’t realize he expected it until Bane isn’t looking at him, but yeah, okay, he thought… whatever. Bane is not only not looking at him, but he’s engaged in conversation with several other people with his back to John. Even Barsad doesn’t acknowledge him until right before John turns back to his tray. Barsad’s eyes flicker over John, emotionless, then he’s back to being ignored. 

Huh. John refuses to acknowledge the sinking feeling in his gut as he turns back to his “sausage pizza.” 

Bane is still ignoring him when he gets to Humanities, refusing even eye contact as John sits down. He doesn’t put his boot on John’s chair, and John tries to understand how he went from _hating_ when Bane did that to feeling hurt when he didn’t. 

Bane probably would have kept ignoring him, except Ms. Bishop announces the last half of class will be spent on research with their partner. When John turns around, Bane is staring at him, his face a blank… er… mask.

John glances at him, confused, then slides over the folder Bane had brought to him. Inside were the Wikipedia articles he’d researched, some screenshots of Andy Warhol pop art, and they lyrics to several songs. He’d printed them in the library that morning, since they didn’t have a printer at home, and he’d been waiting all week to talk to Bane about them. Now, he wasn’t so sure.

Bane glances at them perfunctorily, listens as John talks about Nine Inch Nails, and then spends the rest of the class time looking up additional information on the Russian Revolution. John’s still not sure which examples they’re going to include in their paper since they probably have enough for three or four papers at this point, but he does his own searches and they sit side by side in silence.

By the end of class, John has finally decided that he fucked up somehow, although he doesn’t quite know what he did, and he’s starting to get angry that Bane is being a fucking baby about whatever it is. You know what? Fine. He doesn’t need Bane. He’s got friends. If they’re supposed to be partners for this project, whatever, he doesn’t have to do anything other than that. 

Except that when the bell rings Bane waits for him to gather his stuff after class. And he follows him to his locker. And John’s not sure what the rules are, but it seems like if Bane is going to give him the silent treatment, he at least shouldn’t have to deal with him while he’s doling it out. He glares at him while he swaps books out of his bag.

“What is your problem?” he finally spits out.

Bane glares back. “Why do you insist on being friends with them?”

John’s anger stutters a little as he tries to figure out what the fuck Bane is growling about. “Who?”

“Your two at lunch. Why do you continue to associate with them?”

“Because I want to? Because they’re my friends? Why?” 

Bane isn’t just glaring anymore. He’s angry. He’s _furious_. John can feel it rolling off of him. Fists the size of hams are clenching and unclenching by his thighs and John has no idea what is going on. 

“Did something happen? Did Bruce say something to you?”

Bane’s fist is a blur and the sound of it smashing into the locker next to John’s is explosive in the empty hallway. 

“What the fuck!” he exclaims.

“He almost killed you!” Bane explodes. 

John is bewildered, but holy shit, what the hell is Bane’s problem?! “Well, it’s not called a car on-purpose, and it was a concussion! I didn’t almost die. Calm down, drama queen.”

He takes a half-step back as Bane seems to swell with outrage. Bane angry is like a raging bull. He half expects steam to start puffing out of his mask. Bane draws in a long, rattling breath, clearly trying to get himself under control. 

“What if…” Bane starts, then unclenches his fists and tries again, blowing out a breath. “What if I said I do not wish for you to associate with them anymore?”

John looks at Bane like he’s lost his mind. “Are you kidding me? What is this shit? You buy me a box of fucking Cheerios and you think you own me?” John feels his own fists clench, and his ability to stop his mouth goes out the window. “You don’t control me. You don’t control anything! You’re a kid! What the fuck are you going to do?” 

Bane has moved into a state of calm that is belied by the fire in his eyes. “You are incorrect. I can and will control everything. One day, I will hold the fate of this entire city in the palm of my hand.”

John snorts. “No, you won’t. What can you possibly control? Not your anger, apparently. You’re a fucked up kid from the fucked up system, just like I am. Except you have a can opener stuck to your face.”

It happens almost faster than he can track. Bane’s eyes flash hurt, then anger, then a rage so deep John feels a chill race down his spine. He draws back a fist and John has time to think, “This won’t be just a concussion,” before he squeezes his eyes shut. 

But the blow never comes. When he opens his eyes, Barsad is standing between them, holding back Bane’s fist with both his hands. “Brother,” he says, and he’s pushing Bane, trying to force him to retreat, but his voice is a plea. 

Bane lets loose an inhuman yell, and Barsad drops his hand and ducks to the side in time for Bane to drive his fist into the locker behind John. The metal caves and then silence descends. Bane’s panting is the only thing audible until he spins on his heel and stalks away, slamming out the side door. 

John swallows and straightens from where he’d fallen against the lockers. “Jesus,” he whispers.

Barsad straightens also, his eyes trained on where Bane exited, his face unreadable.

“Ah,” John stutters, his voice shaky. “Thank you. Thanks.”

Barsad grunts. “I did not do it for you.”

John blinks and gives a half-laugh. “You mean you stopped him from punching me for _his_ sake?”

It was supposed to be a joke, but Barsad nods seriously. He turns to look at John. “I will not let him do that to himself. Not if I can stop it. He’d never forgive himself if he hurt you.”

John’s mouth goes dry. “What? Why?”

Barsad gives him a look. “Do you truly not know? He said you were intelligent.”

Then he’s gone, following Bane into the afternoon sunlight.

 

Sister Beth Anne, the head nun at St. Swithins when he was growing up, had a saying that rang in his head at the most inconvenient times. “Whenever you’re feeling sorry for yourself, do for someone else. There’s no better cure.” 

Her words would, of course, pop up unbidden exactly when he was feeling sorry for himself, and then he would feel guilty if he _didn’t_ do for someone else. It was annoying because sometimes he just wants to feel sorry for himself. Sometimes the guy you might, sort of, possibly, be interested in almost, possibly, might have hit you in the face, right before you find out that he might, sort of, possibly, be interested back. 

So in this case, he allows himself a few minutes of sitting on the ground in front of the dented locker, head pressed into his knees, relishing the ache that results. He needs to think about this and decide how he feels, but his head is too loud. There’s too much going on, he can’t concentrate. 

He tries to think about Bane’s anger, his fierce piercing wrath aimed at John and only John, but gets distracted by the memory of how his large hands had looked when they cradled Micah’s, or the soft look in Bane’s eyes when John came back from talking to Sam. So then he focuses on the way Bane had looked at him after they got done crushing acorns, or the exact shade of his eyes, but then all he can see is a fist coming towards him like a freight train. 

“Auuuugh,” he finally grits out from between his teeth. He pushes himself off the floor, shoulders his bag, and leaves, the path to St Swithins familiar and comforting as he tries to force the anger back into his marrow with each step.

When he gets there, the kids are already on the court with Sam and he lets them be. He navigates the corridors until he comes to the door he’s looking for, knocking softly. There’s no answer, but when he eases the door open, Tay Tay is sitting on his bed with a blanket clutched in his hands, his eyes wide.

John doesn’t enter, just leaves the door open and takes a step back. 

“Hey, Tay Tay. My name is John. Remember me?”

Tay Tay doesn’t say anything, just stares, his little body locked tight in place.

“I was just coming to say hi, and ask if you wanted to come play basketball with the other kids. Does that sound like fun?” 

Tay Tay shakes his head viciously and John holds up his hands in surrender.

“Fair enough, you don’t have to. It’s just that Sam was asking about you. Do you know Sam?”

No answer.

“He’s part of my family, and he’s really good at basketball. He said he’d show you how, if you want. But you don’t have to do it today.” He feels absolutely no remorse volunteering Sam. Besides, Sam would teach a plank of wood if it meant he got to play basketball while he did it.

Still no answer. But Tay Tay isn’t screaming, so John will take what he can get.

“Is it okay if I sit on the floor out here? I won’t come into your room without your permission.” 

No answer. 

John lowers himself to the floor, sitting cross-legged and making himself comfortable. He’s wiping his hands on his pants when he hears a tiny voice.

“What happened to your face?”

John’s hand flies to his nose, because shit, he completely forgot. He must look like a horror show to this kid. Jeeze, Blake, way to go.

“Oh, I’m okay,” he says, smiling. “It looks worse than it is. Sorry about that, I kind of forgot about it.” He shrugs.

But Tay Tay has lowered the blanket and his eyes are still wide, but he doesn’t look as scared. He lifts the blanket, retrieves something, a small, stuffed animal of some kind, and climbs down off the bed. He comes softly over to John and offers it shyly. 

“Oh? What do you have here?” John asks, holding the animal as if it were made of precious gems. “Ohhhh, a bunny!” he breathes. “Does it have a name?”

Tay Tay looks at his shoes and mumbles something that John doesn’t quite catch.

“Marshall? Is that his name?”

Tay Tay nods and John gives him his biggest grin. He gives him back his rabbit and Tay Tay tucks it in his elbow and sits on the ground across from John. 

“Marshall is the name of my favorite Paw Patrol puppy. Do you like that show too?”

Tay Tay’s eyes light up like John just said he moonlighted as Santa Claus. He nods hard enough to hurt himself.

John laughs. He starts to sing, “PAW Patrol, PAW Patrol, we'll be there on the double!”

Then Tay Tay joins in, and he has a _remarkable_ voice. “Whenever there's a problem, 'round Adventure Bay, Ryder and his team of pups, will come and save the day!”

John laughs again. “Wow, you’re a great singer! Do you like to sing?”

Tay Tay’s smile dims a bit and he shrugs. 

“Maybe not all the time, huh?”

Tay Tay is still for a moment, then he asks John, “Did someone hurt you?” His tiny voice breaks John’s heart.

John looks at him seriously. “No. That’s not what happened. I was in a car accident, but I had lots of people who looked after me so I could get better. But,” John swallows, “I used to have people hurt me, a long time ago.”

“When you were a little kid?” Tay Tay’s voice is a whisper.

It’s John’s turn to nod. “Yes. But that’s not going to happen to you here. Did you know I lived here too when I was not much older than you? I came here, afterward, and they took care of me. And now they’re going to take care of you.”

He doesn’t look convinced, but he’s listening.

“Hey,” John says, “do you want to see if we can find Father Reilly and ask him if we can maybe watch some Paw Patrol on TV?”

“What time is it?” Tay Tay asks.

“Oh, uhhh,” John checks the clock in the hall, “almost 4:00. Why?”

“It’s not on right now,” Tay Tay declares, crestfallen.

John hides his smile. “Well, should we go see what the other kids are doing then instead?”

He gives John a small nod and John grins at him. “All right! Let’s go!”

They both get to their feet and Tay Tay runs to put Marshall back under the blankets. Then they head to the basketball court.

“Angel!” he calls and the taller boy jerks around abruptly. He grins a gap-toothed smile and his curly hair bounces as he jogs over to them.

“Hello, slowpoke! I thought you’d never get here!”

“Well, I was just talking to my new friend Tay Tay. He thought we might come and see what you guys were doing. Did you know he likes Paw Patrol?”

Angel, like the awesome kid he is, squats down next to Tay Tay and feigns interest in a show he probably outgrew five years ago. “Wow, you do? I think Mia likes that show too! Do you know Mia?”

When Tay Tay takes his face out of John’s jeans long enough to shake his head, Angel offers his hand so they can go find Mia and see if she wants to play Paw Patrol with them. Then he leads him away, chatting the whole time, and John wants to hug him. He wants to hug both of them. He turns and sees Father Reilly standing in the doorway.

He nods at John, a proud smile on his face, and John returns both. He stays to play basketball for a bit with Sam and the older kids, while the younger ones race around the playground rescuing the baby stick that fell out of the tree. Tay Tay, he’s pleased to notice, got to be Marshall.

When he tells Sam it’s time to go, Sam doesn’t argue, and John calls goodbye to everyone. He can hear Mia tell Tay Tay, “Don’t worry, he always comes back,” and for some reason, it makes his throat tight.

Sam is quiet on the walk home so John tries to plow through the mess that’s in his head. It’s not going very well when Sam finally says, “That was pretty cool.”

John turns to study him in the fading light. “What was?”

He shrugs. “What you did with that kid.”

“Oh.” John feels the warm glow of the compliment. “Thanks. I was just trying to help, though.”

Sam nods, watching his feet and bouncing the ball casually. “I was just thinking, you’d be good at that. For like, a job, or whatever.”

“Oh,” John says again. He thinks about it, but surprises himself by saying, “Actually, I was thinking about being a cop.”

Sam nods again, slower. “Yeah, that’d be good too.”

“Yeah?” John smiles, slinging an arm around Sam’s neck. “Well, you be sure to drop me a line from the NBA, will ya? I want floor seats to all the Bulls games.”

Sam doesn’t answer, but his smile could probably be seen from space.

Sister Beth Anne was right, of course. He feels better. He isn’t any closer to deciding how he feels about Bane, but he does feel better. It takes him a long time to fall asleep that night, though.

Bruce is saying something, probably to him, but he can’t be sure because he isn’t listening. He’s got one hand fisted in his hair, holding his aching head up, and the other is using his fork to push the food around on his plate. He’s just replaying the look Bane gave him as he sat down at his normal lunch table over and over again in his head. The one that was still mad. The one that was still hurt. The one that was surrounded by an ever-growing group of people in the far corner of the lunchroom, which he would have to wade through to even be able to talk to Bane, and which he didn’t really want to be a part of anyway. 

John sighs and pushes his tray away. “Excuse me, I’ll be right back,” he says, cutting Bruce off mid-sentence. Or maybe he was done talking already. John doesn’t know. All he knows is that when he stands and walks across the lunchroom, hands in his pockets, the sound of his thudding heart is the only thing filling his ears.

Bane has his back to John, but Barsad watches him approach, and his warning look is received loud and clear. If he fucks up with Bane, Barsad will fuck him up. After Bane gets through with him, presumably. 

He stands there awkwardly for a few seconds because Bane is talking to someone else, a senior he doesn’t know, and ignoring him. This isn’t going like he had hoped, and finally he just interrupts. “Hey.”

Bane, Barsad, and the senior turn to stare at him. 

“Can I talk to you for a sec?”

“Certainly, little Robin,” Bane booms, but he doesn’t move, just continues to stare at John, who can feel his neck heating up.

“Um. Can we…?” He backs up and gestures vaguely that they should go somewhere else because he hadn’t really thought this out very well and doesn’t know exactly what he’s asking for.

Bane raises an eyebrow, glances at Barsad, and then rises from his seat. “By all means. Please, lead the way.”

John walks out the doors to the cafeteria, trying hard not to walk as fast as possible because he knows every person in this room is watching what’s happening out of the corner of their eyes and in quick, furtive glances.

Bane is behind him when he hits the double doors, and John hesitates for a second before heading outside. He starts to regret his decision as the cold wind whips him the second he steps through the door, but Bane is behind him and he can’t turn back now. He leads the way to the tables, where Alex and his friends are huddled together in jackets and fingerless gloves, eating their sack lunches.

Bane glares at them and jerks his head back towards the building. Alex groans and rolls his eyes, but they all get up and leave.

John stands next to the building, out of the wind and out of line of sight from the lunchroom windows. He tries not to shiver. Luckily, there’s an eclipse standing in front of him blocking the rest of the cold wind.

“Look, I wanted to talk to you,” he says, addressing Bane’s clavicle. 

“Obviously,” Bane says, and John can’t help but glance at his eyes, to see if he can read the inflection there. He can’t, so he drops his gaze again, screws up his courage, and forges ahead.

“I’m sorry.” He pauses, but Bane doesn’t say anything, so he keeps going. “I mean, I’m still mad at you, and there are a hundred things we need to say to each other, but I thought that might be a good first thing because I am. Sorry.”

Bane is silent, but crosses his arms and John looks up. He’s regarding John, head tipped slightly to one side. “You’re angry.”

It’s not a question, but John nods anyway.

“For attempting to harm you.”

The flare in John’s gut flickers to life and he glares. “Yes. I am. Anyone would be. You could have really hurt me.”

“If I had wanted to, yes,” Bane agrees.

John frowns. “That doesn’t work for me. That’s not okay.”

To his surprise, Bane laughs. A rich, rolling sound with his head thrown back, and there’s genuine laughter in his eyes when he looks at John. “My funny little bird, I have always been able to really hurt you if I’d wanted to. That will not change tomorrow.” He’s doing that thing again where he looks at John like he’s some form of adorable baby animal.

John acknowledges the truth of this with a half-grin and an eye roll. “Okay, fine, yes, you’re fucking ripped, okay? But I can’t…” he breathes out a frustrated breath and takes a step closer to Bane, staring at the toes of his giant boots. “I can’t do this with someone that would hurt me. I just can’t. So that can’t happen again.”

There’s a long, agonizing silence and John wants to look up at those eyes, which he can’t get out of his head, but he’s caught somewhere between panic and exhilaration, a tiny thing with wings fluttering in his chest.

Bane’s hand comes up to gently, oh so carefully, lift John’s chin so he can meet his eyes. He leaves it there.

“Do what?”

His voice is soft, low, and kicks that flutter into a thunderous updraft. “This,” John says, and dips his head to run Bane’s large, calloused thumb over his lips. It’s faint, just a brush of dry skin against dry skin, but the shuddering breath Bane pulls in is all John needs to hear. He can’t stop the smile that sound causes, a smile he presses into Bane’s thumb also. He looks up at Bane and his eyes are closed. John can see him swallow, hard. 

When he opens his eyes, the heat there sears John to his core. Bane crowds him up against the building, his body flush with John’s and his hands reverently touching John’s face. Christ, he is big.

John’s hands are curling into Bane’s shirt and his breath stutters over Bane’s fingers and he tips his head back against the brick wall, trying to control the half chub he’s got going on in his pants. Bane is pushing up against him in all the best ways, and he’ll feel it if John pops a boner, but god damn it, he’s 16 and this is fuel for a thousand spank fantasies already. Bane just moves to stroking John’s neck with his attentive fingertips. 

“You are so beautiful,” Bane whispers, moving back to John’s lips and John can feel the blush that started in his toes. “I would pillage villages for you.”

John’s chuckle is soaked up by the pads of Bane’s fingers and he has the urge to lick them. “No need,” he whispers into them instead.

“I wish I could kiss you,” Bane says, a confession.

“I want you to,” John says back, an absolution.

Bane stops, and draws back slightly. His eyes are wary on John’s. “I cannot.”

John uses the extra inches to clear his head. He tips a smile at Bane. “I know. I don’t mind.”

Bane _growls_ and pushes John further into the brick wall, and John gasps, because fuck, he might not be the only one with a half chub problem, which is currently becoming a full-fledged problem because Bane is running his mask over the curves of John’s neck, breathing in like he’s scenting him, and damn, that shouldn’t be so hot.

_”Hey! What is the meaning of this?!”_

Bane freezes at Principal Gordon’s furious voice, and John jumps hard enough to smack his own head into the wall. 

“Ow,” John mutters and Bane pulls back slightly. 

“What have I told you about fighting, Bane? This is a zero tolerance school. Both of you, my office, now. I’m afraid this will mean suspension for both of you.” 

Bane’s eyes crinkle and John tries to swallow his laugh as he lets go of Bane’s shirt as he backs away. 

Principal Gordon leads the way to his office and shakes his head sadly. “I had such high hopes for you, John.” He points them to the two chairs in front of his desk and pulls suspension paperwork out of his desk.

“Sorry, sir,” John says once he gets his voice under control. “I can’t promise it won’t happen again, though.”

Gordon frowns. “Why is that, son?”

“Well,” John frowns back, “if I see a wrong, I can’t not right it. If there’s something that should be happening, but no one is doing anything about it, well, I am going to.”

Bane cocks an eyebrow at him and Principal Gordon shakes his head again. “I understand. But the rules are very clear here. My hands are tied.”

John nods with deep sincerity. “Well, when your hands are tied, you don’t have a lot of wiggle room. You can feel stretched out, bound. It makes it very hard."

Bane is staring at the ceiling with his hands tight on the arms of the chair and Principal Gordon nods back. 

“I feel you there,” he says.

“No,” John insists. “No, that shouldn’t be anything you need to feel. Ever.”

Bane’s shoulders might be shaking. It’s hard to tell.

“Well, thank you, son. I appreciate that.”

John nods again. “Me too.”

Principal Gordon sighs. “I sure wish I didn’t have to do this. This is going to go on your permanent record. But rules are rules.”

They both hang their heads in an approximation of contrition and Gordon sighs his way through filling out forms and trying to contact someone to come get them. 

“I’m not coming down there! Just make him walk,” comes Sharon’s answer from the other end of the phone, loud enough that they can all hear it. 

Gordon gives him a sympathetic grimace, but John doesn’t give a fuck. He expected far worse. Sharon has actually been pretty okay for the last week or so. 

“You may go, John. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

John nods and waits outside the office door for Bane. 

“Isn’t there anyone I can call?” Gordon asks, his voice somewhere between kindly and annoyed.

“No,” is Bane’s succinct answer, and there’s a sound of shuffling papers. “I will walk home as well.”

Then Bane is there, taking up too much space, too warm and too close in the hallway outside Principal Gordon’s office. John swallows, wondering what he needs to do to get Bane to push him up against the wall again, although this is probably not a good time. Then Bane brushes past him, and John follows after him, sucked along in his wake. He follows Bane to his locker, which he hadn’t known where it was before, and watches him retrieve his coat. There’s nothing else in there, which is good because there isn’t room for anything else. 

Bane shrugs it on, then they walk to John’s locker, where Bane waits impatiently for John to get his own coat and bag.

“Come,” he barks, then heads out the side exit, throwing open the metal door and John follows after him.

He trots to keep up with Bane’s longer strides, straggling along behind him, feeling like a complete idiot and hating it. Finally, he reaches out and grabs Bane’s hand. That brings him to a screeching halt. 

John feigns a confidence he doesn’t really feel and holds on tightly. “Come on.” He tugs Bane along. “Where are we going?”

Bane is staring at their combined hands as he finally starts moving again. His fingers have curled cautiously around John’s and John squeezes them and knocks into Bane’s shoulder.

“Hey,” he says, smiling, “where are we going?”

Bane blinks down at him like he’s coming out of a fog. “I would like to show you my home, if you are amenable.”

John brightens. “Yeah,” he says, “I am. I’d like that.”

Bane nods and picks up the pace again, but slower than before. He doesn’t let go of John’s hand.

They walk and walk, through an even sketchier neighborhood than John’s, which is saying something, and finally come to a tiny white house with peeling paint and a small but well-cared-for flowerbed in front. 

“This is where I live,” Bane says, gesturing offhandedly as he walks right past it. John stares at him in confusion, but he’s still being gripped by Bane’s gigantic paw, so he’s tugged right along with him as they slow and enter the gate in the chain link fence of the house next door.

Bane’s heavy knock brings a series of yips from inside, some small dog alerting its owner of a stranger, and then a flurry of small feet before the door is yanked open. A little girl, probably three years old, barrels out of the house and into Bane’s waiting arms.

“My Bane!” she cries in excitement. 

Bane lifts her, petting her long brown curls down her back as she hugs him fiercely around the neck. 

“And this is my home,” Bane says to John over her shoulder. He sets her down and holds her hand in his larger one. “Talia, I would like you to meet John Blake.”

Talia looks at him, mistrust in every line of her small body. John smiles and squats down to her level. 

“Hello, it’s nice to meet you,” he says, offering his hand to shake hers.

She sniffs and turns her nose up. “I am a princess. Princesses don’t shake hands.”

John drops to one knee instead and spreads his arms wide, lowering his head. “Forgive me, my lady. A thousand apologies.”

She giggles, and when John looks up, an elderly woman in an ancient housecoat is at the door, smiling fondly at them. “You’re early,” she says.

John stands as Bane thanks her. “We’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

“Alright, sounds good!” she says, closing the door after a short nod to John. He nods back.

Bane holds Talia’s hand as they go down the steps, but he hesitates for some reason at taking John’s again. John slides his hand into Bane’s anyway for the short walk and Bane holds it tightly. 

“That was Mrs. Baldwin,” Bane says.

“No relation to the actors!” Talia chirps as she skips alongside Bane and jumping over the cracks. John grins.

After Bane lets them in, she races for her toys, determined to show John every one. Bane makes a snack while John exclaims over each of them, and Talia has to show him all of Barbie’s “ ‘sessories”. 

When her jelly sandwich is ready, she takes it to the tiny folding table and chair in the corner, humming and chewing happily. Bane lowers himself onto the couch next to John.

“I feel like I’m meeting you for the first time,” John confesses. “I didn’t know.”

Bane gives him a curious look. “She is not mine,” he clarifies. “She, Barsad, and I all escaped together from our prior foster prison.”

John hums his understanding. “Bad, huh?”

“Indeed,” is all he says. They watch Talia eating, feeding bites to her Barbie and prattling away by herself.

“She’s great,” John says. “I’m honored I got to meet her.” He grins at Bane and Bane’s eyes crinkle. 

Gently, John reaches out a finger and traces those lines, by far his favorite feature of Bane’s expressive eyes. Bane lifts his hand and presses a thumb into where John knows one of his dimples lies. He smiles again so Bane can see it, and because he can’t help it. Bane’s thumb traces his smile, and John also can’t help the way he parts his lips and grazes his teeth over Bane’s finger. He can hear Bane’s sharp intake of breath.

“What are you guys doing?”

Talia’s bewildered voice makes John jump, which makes Bane laugh. He’d be embarrassed, but those crinkles are back, and he’ll take a lot of embarrassment to see those more often.

“I don’t know,” John says, looking at Bane. “But it feels like the right thing.”


End file.
